Leslie Leeds Poetry Prize — 2026

From left to Right: Kara Russell, Capone Reyes, Georgine Revilloza, Megan Forbus

The Leslie Leeds Poetry Prize is sponsored by the English Department at CCSU. It was created by former English professor Barry Leeds to celebrate the memory of his daughter Leslie.

Winner: Georgine Revilloza

Finalist: Capone Reyes

Finalist: Megan Forbus

Judge: Kara Russell

2026 Winner

“Melting Hot Pot (you’re hungry)“

Georgine Revilloza 

hi, yes, you’re asking what i am?

well! i’ll have you know i’m

asian in the way

i down miso soup and

straighten my sakura pink straw to suck

up boba in bubble tea past my matcha teeth

rotating between takeout orders, a human conveyor belt:

orange, general tso, kung pao

chicken—coward, should’ve gotten something braver

but the pho is warm, the curry hotter, my feelings

raw pieces of flesh upon vinegared rice

smells fishy when not done right, right?

the way the drunken noodle curls; flimsy compass

the way the rice grain twirls; awful assess-

mention what else? tteokbokki, of course—

“ooh, they ate it in my favorite k-drama!”

—and don’t worry, i’m not basic

i bleed chicken adobo, it’s filipino pride

with a lick of seasoning, no lick of tagalog

in my mouth, is it mochi? mooncake maybe?

an egg roll or, mayhaps, chop suey?

oh, all blends together, you know, color collision

tasty assertions i’m the same and i’m different, like

seven hundred wondrous flavors of pocky

all boxed in monolithic me:

the asian experience, rinse your hands

and go down me so you’re satisfied

biting a bit of the Other

‘til you’re craving chinese or japanese

or something close enough

(a kano, a best friend, and a lover

walk into a room, together in unified body

plucks bok choy and napa cabbage

useless in my hands, transforms them

into a beautiful pot of canh cải ngọt;

a dish i only know exists because of him,

who worries i’m not eating enough veggies—

too much mashed potato and pasta in my system—

and when my spoon stirs the bowl, my tongue the broth,

i know

i could never make it.)

Judges Comment:

From its opening line, “Melting hot pot” challenges our habit of assigning labels to anyone “other” than ourselves. “you’re asking what i am?” the poem begins. “…i‘m / asian,” it continues, before taking us on a culinary tour of the continent. We’re given a taste of Japan in the miso soup, of Taiwan in the boba tea, of China in the kung pao chicken, and we go on to sample dishes from Korea, the Philippines, and Vietnam. The speaker is like “seven hundred wondrous flavors of pocky / all boxed in monolithic me…” As the poem unfolds, it is clear the speaker not only consumes a variety of Asian delicacies; they are also being consumed. To my ears, the poem sounds a warning that by assigning hasty labels to the Other we devour their more complex identities, satisfying ourselves with getting “close enough.”  

2026 Finalist

“Too White for the Isle, Too Black for the Land“

Capone J. Reyes

Puerto Rico,

With a glass of coquito in hand,

I rest easy knowing the sun will rise again.

Brisk winds on my face as the salt comes forth,

Truly a magic neverland of warmth.

Where the brothers are kind and the sisters fine,

Where God graces our brown behind.

So crisp, so divine,

makes me feel like fine wine.

Sipping the nectar of this holy land as I reach for the coqui on my hand.

But my brother stays silent and cold.

Looks and says, “you’re all alone.”

As my skin grows old and the winds bolden,

Revealing how the boats rolled in:

Conquistadors with their red hats,

Slobbering dogs howling mad,

The blue of the ocean rises up too,

As folks come out that don’t look like you.

Purple blood blots out my sun,

As I wake up and ask, “What have they done…”

Another man killed, another son lost.

Yeah I’m awake, the gun popped off.

No father, no man, to teach of this land;

Yeah I’m alone, with nothing in hand.

My mom once said, “don’t be like Tio Danny,”

But that’s all I can do within the insanity:

Snitch, bitch, cry, get high,

Always fear that one day I’ll die!

I sigh…

We don’t know why we were put on this Earth.

The roaches and rats making us feel like dirt.

Too White for the isle,

Too Black for the land.

Eden, they said, now that was the plan.

To find a home where we weren’t alone.

Only to end up as God’s turncoats.

Betraying the beauty, the honor, the worship.

Now we’re stuck on the U.S.S. Warship,

To Germany, Nam, Iran,

Losing Santos, Maria, y Juan,

Telling us that we don’t belong,

That we can’t sing our song,

That we’re in the wrong!?

That the kid’s got a…

…Another one.

Gone.

That kid was a son,

That kid was a brother,

That kid was an uncle,

And now?

…now he’s dead.

We can’t keep living like this,

El Barrio is making me wish I could quit.

But Mami told me, “Shut up and sit,”

to sort myself out, “no more crazy shit.”

Too White for the isle, too Black for the land.

Those words keep repeating in my head as the question still stands,

Just where do I belong? Just what was God’s plan?

I could write a song to the folks down in park street,

But then I’d be wrong, be told to make it discrete,

“Sounds too White, too gay, it’s not right.”

“You got the look of a gringo and the voice of a geek.”

Get myself kicked off the streets and into the land of White hands with richly served treats.

It’s for the best they said, yet the propaganda festered and leeched its way into my head:

I can’t be Spanish, Latino, or Black, I’m not thug enough, I can’t swing like that;

I can’t shoot a gun, don’t know how to have fun,

I’ll just be stiff and rigid, just like the White sons.

Keep it apolitical,

Keep it silly,

Keep it short,

Need me to say the N-word? Say no more, good sir.

“It’s funny ‘cause it’s Black, it’s funny ‘cause it dies, it’s funny ‘cause it starves.”

I am no man, no woman, no child, I’m a person who sees no color or style;

A hollow sell out for the false right and feigning left;

A mad dog chasing after systemic gold held by White, crinkly hands of old.

and just as I get this show on the road, the White kids take me aside,

Pulling the rug from under my feet,

“You don’t belong here; you’re clearly off the streets.”

…

Imagine my surprise by the magic of their eyes,

Spotting me a mile away and telling I’m not White.

In an instant, I’m outcast by both sides after committing cultural suicide.

Making an ass outta myself to fit into a home that would never, not ever be considered my own.

Too White to be Latino.

Too Black to be White.

A diaspora caught outside the American binary of what’s deemed wrong and right.

It took me twenty-two years…

Twenty-two years of fighting,

of inflicting pain on myself and those around me,

of selling my soul and letting folks rob me,

of seeing every table through the windows outside.

Only now can I say,

That I’m Puerto Rican in my own way.

I’m not gonna be another O.J,

Or another Drake,

Not gonna reject my heritage or claw at it with desperation.

I’m just gonna find my own destination and do my own thing.

A diaspora I remain, but I don’t find myself in pain.

There’s no shame in being outside the binary or perceived as deranged.

Brothers and sisters of all styles,

The Mas and Pas,

Titis y Tios,

‘Buelas y Welos,

Hell, even the young bloods out there…

You’re all still my family.

We’ll drink, party, live out the pride of Puerto Ricans and Latinos everywhere.

Whether that be the land, isle, or sea.

Judges Comment:

“Where the brothers are kind and the sisters fine, Where God graces our brown behind.” Is it possible to imagine a more affectionate description of Puerto Rico? “Too White for the isle, / Too Black for the land” is both this poem’s title and its refrain; it encapsulates the speaker’s struggle to reconcile the doubleness of being Puerto Rican and American. The poem reminds me of Langston Hughes’s “I, Too,” and of W. E. B. DuBois’ The Souls of Black Folk, both of which depict the struggle of reconciling two distinct identities. After years of being told who they are not, and where they do not belong, the speaker determines that pride in one’s national identity extends beyond the binary, and proudly claims as his rightful home the land, the isle and the whole damn sea.  

2026 Finalist

“Man, Searching for the Anti-Christ. Forgets to Look in the Mirror (dedicated to Peter Thiel)“

Megan Forbus

He opens his mouth and flies come out,

each wing carved in Latin and ruin.

The night whispers a benediction

as he dreams of boiling oceans and Swedish girls.

Doves die on his windowsill one by one,

and he thinks that death follows everyone like a shroud.

At the end of the world, there’s an eerie hum

like a song he sang in the womb.

The prophets are dead in the ground

but still they whisper

we warned you, we warned you.

Judges Comment:

From its startling first image (“He opens his mouth and flies come out”) to its haunting final line, this unflinching depiction of a present-day anti-Christ evokes T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land.” But instead of closing with a whispered prayer for peace, the echo in this poem’s final line (“we warned you, we warned you”) suggests our society has learned nothing from poets or prophets that came before us. The oceans are already boiling, and a young Swedish activist can only do so much. The poem’s most chilling detail is not an image but a sound: in a world that privileges technological advancements over human connection, the apocalypse comes not with a bang but with an eerie hum.