And The Winner Is. . .

Wherewithal was thrilled with all the contest submissions that came our way.  The choices were difficult, but our three finalist, Stacey Balkun, Alexis Rhone Fancher, and Gillian Wegener made it nearly impossible to choose the winner.

We are proud to announce that the winner of Wherewithal’s Annual poem Contest is “A Boy Comes Toward You” but Gillian Wegener.

Please enjoy the winning poem, and the two amazing finalist below.


A Boy Comes Toward You

he comes toward you                           down the sidewalk
he has something in his hands            he’s eleven
he’s wearing a white shirt                    he smiles
he’s black                                                 he has something in his hands
his hood is up                                          he’s a thin boy
he’s white                                                he’s got an angry scar
his cap is on backwards                       he’s nineteen
he wears a black jacket                       he doesn’t smile
his hands are in his pockets                he doesn’t make eye contact
he’s very tall                                            he’s chewing gum
he’s got headphones                             he’s smoking
he looks away                                         he’s holding the hand of a little girl
his jeans ride low                                    he looks straight ahead
he’s alone                                                 he’s Sikh, his hair wound in his patka
what’s in his hands                                 he’s fourteen
he smiles                                                  one ear is pierced
both ears are pierced                            his jacket is blue
a boy comes down the sidewalk        you cannot tell what’s in his hands
he winks                                                   is that a book under his arm
he’s clean cut                                          his hair is long
his shoes are dirty                                  he says nothing
he says hey                                              he’s carrying something
is it a coffee mug                                    he says please
he comes toward you                            he asks if he can pray for you
he looks you in the eye                          you look at what’s in his hands
you look him in the eye                         the prayer hangs in the air between you

Gillian WegenerGillian Wegener has had poetry published SpillwayPackinghouse ReviewIn Posse, and Sow’s Ear. Her chapbook Lifting One Foot, Lifting the Other was published by In the Grove Press in 2001, and her first full-length collection of poetry, The Opposite of Clairvoyance was published in 2008 by Sixteen Rivers Press. Wegener lives in Modesto, CA where she hosts the monthly 2nd Tuesday Reading Series, is founding president of the Modesto-Stanislaus Poetry Center, and is serving as the poet laureate for the City of Modesto because she truly believes that poetry can make the world better.


Redbird Reef


In Brooklyn, my ex rides
.           in a subway car
like the ones sunk to the bottom
of the Atlantic,            repurposed into hope
and reef.


.          We don’t have to name it
.                    bereft or drowned.
Instead, call it                                     new city,
.                    an ecosystem on the hull
.          of an F train.
.          we will call it that
.                    and I’ll refrain from calling him
to say how I feel like I’ve missed my stop,
thrumming too fast in a dark tunnel:
.          a muffled hum in my chest, softer
.                    than the chime of a train’s closing doors.


.                                                           No,
I’ll say how hopeful,
.                    the way we recycle:
whatever we were has faded so easily
.          into landscape camouflaged
by coral
.          or skyscrapers, the pylons
.                    of a bridge lifting
from a riverbed.


.          What trash couldn’t be emptied,
stripped, renumbered?
.                    What couldn’t be flung
.                               from a barge glinting?


This sinking
.                    and only a memory of riding
.          all the way to Coney Island
for the silver-scaled skirts and feathered wigs
of the mermaid parade one summer.


.                                  I’ve lost him, the energy
.          to walk a city
.                                  into early morning
when the birds begin
.                      their calls.


My phone is silent.
.                                  At night,
.          the streetlamps and lighthouses always
.                    flicker on, even after the ships return
.                                  to the bustling city, even if
some of us are lost
.                                                           outside the grid,
.          alone on the darkened ocean floor.


Screen Shot 2015-08-03 at 10.12.05 PMStacey Balkun
, author of Lost City Museum, (ELJ Publications, 2016) is a New Jersey poet with her heart in the south. Raised in Piscataway, NJ, Stacey earned her MFA in Creative Writing at Fresno State before moving to New Orleans. Stacey works as a writing tutor at Delgado Community College and volunteers with several literary organizations, including One Book, One New Orleans and Big Class, Chapter 504. A 2015 Hambidge Fellow, Stacey served as Artist-in-Residence at the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Her work has appeared in Gargoyle, Muzzle, THRUSH, and Bayou, among others. She writes for The California Journal of Women Writers at

Snapshots and Lies

our bodies are a haven from August.

this summer all we do is rut

mattress on the carpet
him on me

a miasma of scorching discontent

dingy sheets. the
dryer eats them and my future

gets stuck in the holes.

how did I know he wanted that baby?

at the window,
he smokes Marlboros, taps ashes
on the losers below.

there’s not enough air to go around.

I found a corpse in the kitchen, I tell him.

he flicks his dead daddy’s Zippo
again and again,

surveys the neon-tinged city.

I want to steal something important.

I reach for his pride on the window ledge.
he flicks me away like a gnat.

the tv’s been broken since May.


Alexis Rhone Fancher is the author of “How I Lost My Virginity To Michael Cohen and Other Heart Stab Poems,” (Sybaritic Press, 2014). You can find her work in Rattle, The MacGuffin, Fjords, Broadzine!, Slipstream, H_NGM_N, The Chiron Review, Menacing Hedge, Ragazine, Cactus Heart, Carbon Culture Review, The Literary Underground, and elsewhere. Her poems have been published in over twenty American and international anthologies. Her photos have been published worldwide, including spreads in River Styx, Blue Lyra, Blink-Ink, and the covers of The Mas Tequila Review and Witness. Since 2013 she’s been nominated for three Pushcart Prizes and a Best of The Net award. Alexis is Photography Editor of Fine Linen Literary Journal, and poetry editor of Cultural Weekly, where she also publishes The Poet’s Eye, a monthly photo essay about Los Angeles.

Submissions Closing!

You only have 4 days left to find a home for your poems at what we are predicting will be the best new Poetry Journal of 2014, Wherewithal!  The submission period will close on September 30th and then we begin the process of amazing you with the inaugural issue that so far includes, Richard Garcia, National Endowment of the Arts and Pushcart Prize Winner; Gillian Wegener, Poet  Laureate of Modesto; and Erin Elizabeth Smith, whose poem, “The Cartography of Alice” we are giving you an excerpt from below in hopes of motivating you into SUBMITTING right now!

The Cartography of Alice

I can almost chart the distance to her,
those tangled surface streets of vein,
this woman a starred city,
an atlas ring of interstate.


It is nearly too much,
the way she leaves each day—
hands fishing in pockets
for a thing she never finds.