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Name Sort descending	Genre	Year
Samuel Kọ́láwọlé	Fiction	2025
Tony Kushner	Drama	1990
Natalie Kusz	Nonfiction	1989
Suji Kwock Kim	Poetry	2006
Catherine Lacey	Fiction	2016
Mary LaChapelle	Fiction	1988
Rattawut Lapcharoensap	Fiction	2010
Rickey Laurentiis	Poetry	2018
Victor LaValle	Fiction	2004
Andrea Lawlor	Fiction	2020
Amy Leach	Nonfiction	2010
Li-Young Lee	Poetry	1988
Hilary Leichter	Fiction	2026
Suzannah Lessard	Nonfiction	1995
Dana Levin	Poetry	2005
Mark Levine	Poetry	1993
Yiyun Li	Fiction	2006
Ralph Lombreglia	Fiction	1998
Ralph Lombreglia	Nonfiction	1998
Layli Long Soldier	Poetry	2016
Claire Luchette	Fiction	2025
Ling Ma	Fiction	2020
Nathaniel Mackey	Fiction	1993
Nathaniel Mackey	Poetry	1993
Rosemary Mahoney	Nonfiction	1994
Terese Marie Mailhot	Nonfiction	2019
Megha Majumdar	Fiction	2022
Mona Mansour	Drama	2012
Micheline A. Marcom	Fiction	2006
J.S. Marcus	Fiction	1992
Ben Marcus	Fiction	1999
Anthony Marra	Fiction	2012
Nina Marie Martínez	Fiction	2006
Dionisio D. Martínez	Poetry	1993
Cate Marvin	Poetry	2007

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Selected winners

Carvell Wallace

2026

Another Word for Love

Once, I read a story—or maybe I imagined a
story—of two children ages eight and twelve
discovering the dead body of the grandmother
who was taking care of them. The older child,
a girl, took responsibility then. Feeding her
younger brother, covering the body, keeping
life going, until the smell got too much, and
they asked a neighbor for help. They were, of
course, rescued. But I often wonder what they
were rescued from. It is good, of course, if
they were brought into a place of safety,
steady reliable meals, home, and hopefully
love and care. But somewhere in me the feeling
of hurtling alone is itself the feeling of
home, a human truth the size of the universe,
the size of my mother and me in a motel with
no future to be certain of. I would never want
that for myself or for my children. I would
never want that for anyone. And yet sometimes,
I want it for myself.

Excerpts from ANOTHER WORD FOR LOVE: A MEMOIR by Carvell Wallace. Copyright © 2024 by Carvell Wallace. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux. All Rights Reserved.

Mark Turpin

1997

Hammer

Poems

Maybe he pictured just the nail,

the slight swirl in the center of the head and raised

the hammer, and brought it down with fury and with skill

and sank it with a single blow.

Not a difficult truck for a journeyman, no harder

than figuring stairs or a hip-and-valley roof

or staking out a lot, but neither is a house,

a house is just a box fastened with thousands of nails.

Jennifer duBois

2013

A Partial History of Lost Causes

A Novel

I told him about the nucleotides, the genetic test, the prognosis. I told him that atrophying of basal ganglia starts years before symptoms present, and that right now—in this car, in this moment—parts of my brain were dying, parts that I didn’t know I needed, but parts that I would never, never be able to get back. I told him that there wasn’t an emotion or an impulse or a stumble that I could completely trust; I told him that one day—if I let it—everything I did and said and thought would be nothing more than the entropic implosion of a condemned building or a dying star.

Shayok Misha Chowdhury

2024

Public Obscenities

A Play

CHOTON

I’m just saying like taxonomically, does it even make sense to categorize my genitalia and your genitalia as the same thing, like…

He indicates RAHEEM’s penis.

…if that’s a penis then…

He pulls his boxers down to show his own penis.

I mean what is this? It’s a polyp.

RAHEEM

Okay.

CHOTON

It’s a little nunu.

RAHEEM

Well I like your little nunu…

RAHEEM examines CHOTON’s penis. He pulls back his foreskin just a bit. CHOTON winces.

CHOTON

Ow. Careful.

RAHEEM

What?

CHOTON

No it’s— it’s just sensitive.

Dalia Sofer

2007

The Septembers of Shiraz

A Novel

“He says, why should some people live like kings and the rest like rats? And why should the wealthy, enamored with Europe and the West, dictate how the whole country should dress, talk, live? What if we like our chadors and our Koran? What if we want our own mullahs to rule us, not that saint – what’s his name?” She taps her fingers on the dashboard, trying to remember the name. “ Morteza told me he is worshipped in Europe… I know! Saint Laurent, or something like that…”

“Yves Saint Laurent?” Farnaz laughs. “He’s not a saint, Habibeh. He’s a designer. That’s just his name.”