Runners-Up | 2025 Justice & Mercy Poetry Contest
Second Place — “Playing God”
By Grace Loonan
“He deserves to die,”
I mutter,
Mindlessly staring through spotless windows
From wall to white-washed wall
To the stainless steel slab in the center,
Its antique leather straps
Seizing the limbs of the man who shot my daughter.
Eyes desert dry,
I observe him,
His jail-beaten body
Frail in fluorescent light,
Pale as pubescent bright-eyed boys
Who bawled under benches,
Hoping to hide from the man who shot my daughter.
Briefly, my mind
Bears me back
To worn wooden benches,
Watching the priest repeat Christ’s command
That the one without sin
Be the first to fling the stone
And dish out blame on the Holy Father’s daughter.
When I was nine,
Bows at the toes
Of my dangling dress shoes,
I smiled when the woman in the story was saved
From the men who played God
By stoning fellow sinners,
From cheating wives, to the men who murdered daughters.
Now, the stone is mine,
And I cling to it,
Harboring it in my heart, my eyes,
Envisioning it melting and filling each sterile syringe.
I wish to take aim at him,
Who took aim at my baby
And stole too much to name when he shot my daughter.
He deserves to die,
My Lord,
Like divine lightning lashing at the Earth,
Like justice gnashing its scaled teeth,
Like the parable, if Christ weren’t there,
So that my gouging grief can ease
When it’s given to the man who shot my daughter.
Then, it is time,
And the first needle,
Loaded like a pistol in the physician’s fingers,
Shakes my core, forcing my gaze down until it’s done;
Until a 25-year-old,
Lying like a stone on a stainless steel slab,
Is all that’s left of the man who shot my daughter.
Mindlessly, I stare at him,
Puddles welling in my eyes,
Grief carving caves in my stomach.
My daughter is gone,
And so is the man who shot my daughter.
And where is the justice I was searching for?
I don’t feel it.
I feel hollow.
I feel like I played God.
Grace Loonan is a 19-year-old from Saint Paul, Minnesota, who is studying at the University of Notre Dame.
Third Place — “Mama’s Baby”
By Rebekah Kevic
The grass was green; the sky was blue
Can you believe he had been there, too?
A baby boy, meek and mild
Mama called him her wild child
First steps, big and bold
Didn’t seem to mind the cold
Tattered blankie, stained clothes
Mama softly kissed his nose
Baby sprouted, mama doubted
Why is this city so loud and crowded?
Gasping for air, catching up to peers
While mama was sinking into arrears
Falling behind, struggling hard
Baby boy became a wild card
Sleepless nights, city lights
His head took the brunt of those fights
Alcohol, sex, violence, cocaine
Anything to take away the pain
Mama stayed up, worried sick
Choked by her throat so thick
Knock on the door, “Police open up!”
“It’s just the mom; we don’t need backup”
Sirens wail, lights strobe
Give me a minute to get my robe
Days, months, years
Mama couldn’t stop the tears
She knew what he had done
It was sick that he thought it was fun
This was her baby, though
That’s what people would have to know
Trial’s four days away
What is that free lawyer even gonna say?
Panic, fear, biting nails
What would his punishment entail?
At least he’d get help in jail, counseling and all
She prayed to God he wouldn’t fall
Off to court, the dreaded day
Let’s just see what the judge has to say
Baby boy looking rough
Mama knew this was gonna be tough
Evidence presented; jury gasped
Here’s the last thing the prosecutor asked:
“Does this monster deserve life?”
It felt like her heart was stabbed by a knife
20 minutes for the jury to decide
Whatever it was, he had to abide
It was unanimous, he deserved to die
This would be their last goodbye
Here was his chance to say sorry, show regret
“He’s a monster, it was his mother I bet”
But all mama could see was her little baby boy
Toddling around with his second-hand elephant toy
The same baby boy who cried over spilled milk
Who would say, “I’m sorry” and hug you like silk
He would never have the chance to thaw
He must die, because that was the law.
Rebekah Kevic is a 26-year-old wife, mom, and non-profit professional in Michigan.
Honorable Mention — “When the Pentobarbital Hits His Vein”
By Bryce Taylor
You want him thinking of spring,
his mother’s soft palms
and sharp fingers pushing his swing when the elms
came out in bursting emerald.
Or immersed in a zen
awareness of ochre carpet, vents, tiles, syringes,
or in prayer or somehow or other
lifted above the facts
of agony, goodbye, you didn’t make the cut.
You want him to know you believe
in a God who forgives him, forgives even
you, the gear that clicks
in the cloaked machine of empire,
injecting this three-drug cocktail:
first consciousness, then breath, and finally pulse
leaving the body, if all goes
according to protocol, this procedure
being optimal for the appearance of sheer
painlessness. You want him
to know you’re praying for him
when you swab the crooks of his arms
with alcohol, look for the vein,
when the saline drip begins, the gurney
shakes, nervous, when the civilized barbiturate
makes its entrance
from behind the curtains.
Bryce Taylor , 36, writes poetry and fiction in Houston, where he lives with his wife and two sons and works in IT.