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Myriam J. A. Chancy is the author of several scholarly books and works of fiction, including the widely acclaimed 2021 novel, What Storm, What Thunder . photo credit: N. Affonso Myriam J. A. Chancy is the author of the novel Village Weavers (Tin House), a Time Best Book of April 2024, and winner of the 2025 Fiction OCM Bocas Award in Caribbean Literature. Her work has received multiple awards, including an American Book Award from the Before Columbus Foundation, the Guyana Prize in Literature, a Foreword INDIES Book of the Year Award Gold Prize, and the Isis Duarte Book Prize. Her previous novel, What Storm, What Thunder , was named a "Best Book of 2021," by NPR, Kirkus, Library Journal, the Boston Globe, the Globe & Mail, shortlisted for the Caliba Golden Poppy Award & Aspen Words Literary Prize, longlisted for the Brooklyn Public Library Book Prize & the OCM Bocas Prize. Her past novels include: The Loneliness of Angels , The Scorpion’s Claw, and Spirit of Haiti . She is also the author of several academic books, including Harvesting Haiti: Reflections on Unnatural Disasters & Framing Silence: Revolutionary Novels by Haitian Women . Recent writings have appeared in Whetstone.com Journal, Electric Literature, and Lit Hub. She is a Fellow of the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation and HBA Chair of the Humanities at Scripps College in California. Excerpted from Village Weavers: A Novel SIMBI CALLS Sisi, Port-au-Prince, 1941 Momo tells Sisi that her village is a place so small and insignificant that it cannot be mapped. If it were, it would not even be a dot; it would be a speck, impossible to see with the naked eye. It is a place one finds by following waters and springs that erupt from the ground miraculously, teeming with unseen life. They are both sitting on woven stools, low to the ground, but Momo towers over Sisi. Momo is enveloped in a voluminous white housedress. She reminds Sisi of a goose in one of the books of fairy tales that her sister, Margie, reads to her from at night. The white of the dress tucks around Momo’s roundness like a second skin. The paleness of the cloth sets off the mahogany brown of her protruding arms and neck in sharp contrast. Momo’s neck has many folds in it, as many folds as decades she has lived on this earth. Sisi pours a scoop of purplish kidney beans from a large burlap sack into a smaller bag, then hands it to Momo to close with a piece of twine. “Do you know what a riddle is, Sisi?” Momo asks. “No,” Sisi answers. “It’s a question that has an answer difficult to find.” “Like when Mami wants to know if she will get enough orders for dresses in the spring to keep us here?” Momo smiles. “Something like that, but harder. I think that my village is a riddle.” “Your village is a question?” Momo laughs. “No, but many say that my village does not exist. Yet every year there are girls who come to us from the village, to stay with us. They are coming from somewhere, no? Not a nowhere place. My village is so small they say it does not exist, but it might be the most powerful place on earth.” Sisi frowns. Is Momo’s story a riddle too? She watches as her grandmother’s hands close the bags Sisi has filled with beans, swiftly turning the twine over and under their gaping openings and pulling it taut into a pucker of fabric, ready to be taken to market. “We are people of the Simbi, Sisi, of the river gods. People will try to convince you either that they don’t exist or that they are evil, but they do exist, and they are not evil. Do you want to hear more?” Sisi sits awestruck. The best part of any day is this time, when she tries to help Momo as best she can before going to bed and Momo tells her a story. Sometimes the story is a memory; at others, a tale she heard and remembers from her village; and at others, like this time, it will be a story about the mistè, the mysteries, the lwa, the gods. “Where I come from,” Momo says, “deep, deep in the interior of Haiti, there are flat areas that give way to forests and rivers, gullies with springs, waterfalls. There is plenty for everyone but not a lot of work, which is why we leave that land and all its natural riches to come and toil in the city we find ourselves in now. If we had work, we would never leave, understand?” Sisi nods, saying nothing, not wanting to interrupt Momo, because saying something can lead Momo to thinking about something else. “Because of the rivers, the forests, there are also snakes. They are mostly harmless, but some are magical. The snakes are the Simbi coming onto dry land to see what we are up to up here, checking on us to guard us from foolishness, occasionally to warn us. The Simbi cried for a long time during the years that the invaders came from the land above to carve ours up, to tell us where we could and could not go. The snakes poured out of the earth and some of the riverbeds dried up until those men left, but nothing was the same after this. The Simbi warned us, but we did not listen. “When I was a girl, not much older than you are now, I was the one who went to fetch water from the spring to bring back to the household. I did this every morning, early. I carried the water on my head like my mother taught me to, and I was told to be careful lest the Simbi come for me.” “Come for you? I thought they were protecting you.” Momo wags a finger in the air above them, the twine trailing down it like a wan flag. “The Simbi are capricious. They are hungry spirits that like little children, especially if, like you, they are clair, untouched by the sun. Luckily, I sunned myself every day, soaking up the rays and making my skin deep, dark brown like the earth, and the Simbi just let me go by every day, most days. Some other children were said to disappear, never to be recovered. Once, the Simbi took an old blind man, but they returned him, eventually, after restoring his sight.” “A blind man who could see?” “Yes. When the Simbi take you, they return you with the ability to see, sometimes to see things no one else can, that you could not see before.” “I wish you had been taken. You could tell us about the unseen things.” “I don’t know that we should wish for this: it is a lot of responsibility.” Momo stops her activity to think. Sisi waits. Momo takes up the twine and gestures to Sisi to continue filling the small bags between them from the burlap. She wants to take them to market in the morning. “There was a girl in my village who disappeared by the springs once. They said that the Simbi took her but gave her back because she wa blessed by the sun. When she returned, she could read the people’s dreams. She could heal the sick with her knowledge.” “How can you know if the Simbi come for you?” Sisi asks, filled, unexpectedly, with dread. “You don’t have to be afraid, Sisi.” “How do you know, Momo? How do you know they won’t come for me?” “Well, I cannot know, but what if I told you that that little sun-touched girl that the Simbi took and returned was me? What if I told you that the Simbi released me so that I could tell you that you have nothing to fear?” “I don’t believe you,” Sisi says doubtfully. “You don’t read dreams.” “Don’t I?” Momo stops to think. “I don’t, do I? But have you ever asked me to interpret your dreams?” Sisi shakes her head, no. “What do they look like, the Simbi?” “No one knows if Simbi are male or female. Some will tell you that Simbi are men, others will tell you Simbi are women. But there are many Simbi, and who knows which Simbi anyone thinks they might know? But I want to tell you about Simbi Andezo, Simbi Two Waters, because I think that she, he—well, maybe we should say ‘they’—will be your destiny. Simbi Twin Souls.” Sisi’s eyes widen even more. Momo continues, “Simbi Andezo governs the waters, those of the sea before us and those of the rivers that course through the mountains behind us, forming the waterfalls and all the streams that travel through the land to nourish the rice and grain fields that feed us. Andezo watches over every creature that comes into contact with the waters, making sure that they do not drown or come to harm, unless a greater force wills it, a force greater than the Simbi. The Simbi are invisible and work in secret in the waters, but you can feel them doing their work of watching and protecting every time you step into the water—but watch out! If you come to see a Simbi, they might enchant you.” “Enchant me? How?” “Do you think that a Simbi might want you?” Momo teases. “I don’t know,” Sisi replies, “but maybe I don’t want to find out!” Momo laughs a deep, guttural laugh. Sisi loves Momo’s stories about the lwa. “Well,” Momo continues, amused, “they have long hair like you, Sisi. They sing like the people do in church, like angels. But beware the siren’s song. Simbi can save you or enchant you, but only rarely do they do both at the same time.” “Like the Simbi did to you?” “Like they did to me. Because the Queen of Sheba is my invisible patron saint, a woman dark like me. But the important thing I want you to remember is that Simbi Andezo gains strength from the union of two forces, two sources of water, like twins. All the waters pour from the land into the ocean, but the ocean would be nothing without the rivers that feed it. And, like the Queen, you must not give yourself to the first person to come your way. You must ask them questions, find out who they are. Like the Simbi, you must test the waters, make sure that they are pure of heart.” “Pure of heart,” Sisi murmurs. “Yes, like you.” Momo taps Sisi’s chest. “You, in here. If you listen to the Simbi but do not fall under their spell, they can teach you how not to fall for the wrong people, the wrong friends, the wrong mate, you understand? You see me here, by myself?” “You’re not alone, Momo. You have Mami and me and Margie.” “Yes, that is true. But you see that I make my way without a menaj, is that not true? And your mother sees your papa maybe once a week, but he does not live here, is that not true? We are sources of water for each other. We are like the Simbi.” Sisi looks into Momo’s face, hoping she can read the answers to the questions Momo’s story stirs in her. But Momo’s face closes like the setting sun. The night’s darkness deepens. “Enough storytelling for today,” Momo says, all of a sudden looking tired. She pushes the finished bags together and closes the burlap against the remaining purplish beans. “I’ll finish this in the morning. Thank you for helping, Sisi. You are a good little helper. Go find your mother, and then off to bed for you.” Sisi does as she is told, then climbs into her bed, where she listens to the murmurs of the house. As she falls to sleep, the noises swaddling her—her sister’s breathing, the shuffling of Momo in her room, her mother’s pedaling of the sewing machine into the night—become like lapping waves beneath a pier. She imagines the Simbi swimming by, having made their way down from the gullies in the valleys, the streams in the forests, the waterfalls, the springs carved out by their snakes. She imagines the Simbi calling out to all of them in the house, to warn or to enchant them with their sirens’ call. THE INTERVIEW This interview was conducted between Myriam J. A. Chancy and Jae Nichelle on September 5th, 2025. I’m excited that you’ve shared an excerpt from the beginning of your most recent novel, Village Weavers .  How did you decide you wanted to start with Momo telling Sisi a story? The novel didn't initially start with the storytelling episode between Momo, Sisi's grandmother, and Sisi, one of the main characters, but as the novel advanced and it became clear to me that the story circled around the simbi, or the river gods, and the belief that they connect waterways to the ocean and people to the life source of water, I decided that I wanted to foreground the lore around the simbi so that the reader would realize that the references to them throughout the novel were not incidental. Sisi receives the story about the simbi from her grandmother and Gertie will receive it from Sisi's older sister. Sisi and Gertie are connected to one another in a spiritual sense like two rivers that feed each other in a subterranean way. Beginning the novel in this way has a symbolic value but it also makes clear the importance of storytelling in Caribbean and Haitian culture specifically. What drew you to the dual narrative form of this book? Especially considering that your previous book, What Storm, What Thunder , was told through ten different voices. Was the narration hard to balance between your two main characters? I generally write polyvocal novels. My earliest novels have four narrative voices each and What Storm has the highest number of voices at ten distinct narrative perspectives so a dual narrative in Village Weavers  is the lowest number of narrative voices I've utilized to date.  Since this was the story of a relationship, I was interested in how each of the women understood their connection to the other from childhood to old age and how differently they remember pivotal moments in their lives. For one thing, what one considers pivotal, the other may consider insignificant and vice versa. They are leading very different lives, in different families, and have external influences that inform their decision-making and interpretive processes. The dual narration allows me to explore their distinct points of view and reveal to the reader how their thoughts and emotional development differs. It also allows me to show how issues of class, color and legitimacy play heavy roles in their lives. For instance, where one girl (Sisi) attempts to win a recitation contest in order to win a scholarship to continue her education, the other (Gertie) is attempting to win the same contest to gain favor with the other girl, oblivious of the other's precarious economic situation.  Contrasting scenes reveal to the reader the ways in which memory operates differently for each person, as is the case in real life, and allows the reader to better understand how this relationship came to be, broke down, and was regained at different points in time. I don't think it was necessarily difficult to balance the narratives, but it is challenging at times to not take sides and to stay faithful to each character's point of view and disposition. As someone with many academic and creative works that tackle Haitian history and influential Haitian figures, I’m curious to know how you balance your scholarly research projects with your storytelling projects. Do you view these as very distinct worlds? So, my academic works are broader in scope, covering texts literary, visual and cinematic, from the Anglophone Caribbean, some of the Latin Caribbean (the DR and Cuba), and the African Diaspora from the continent and in the Americas, as well as focusing (in two of five works) with Haitian women's literature and contemporary Haitian issues. My latest nonfiction work collected essays on the post-earthquake situation in Haiti from 2011-2014 and included a personal photo essay. Although each project is distinct from the other, I have normally worked on one academic book while working on a creative project simultaneously. For instance, I wrote my first novel ( The Scorpion's Claw ) while working on Framing Silence , my book-length project on Haitian women's literature; my second novel ( The Loneliness of Angels)  I worked on while writing a book on Haitian, Dominican and Cuban American women's literature. While working on What Storm, What Thunder , I was also writing my Guggenheim-supported monograph, Autochthonomies.  There usually isn't much overlap in the works except that working on two projects at once allows me to find relief or momentum in the other when I need to put one aside or think about it more. But, in some cases, there can be some overlap. For instance, I did a lot of research on Rwanda working on Autochthonomies, and that influenced one of the narrative voices in WS, where one of the characters finds herself in Rwanda at the time of the 2010 earthquake.  Generally speaking, I approach each project as a writer first and then think about the audience(s) the project is directed towards and develop the work (its structure, internal logics, etc) in function of what is expected for an academic vs a creative project, but I take some liberties on either side. For instance, I have introduced fiction as well as chapter-length interviews with authors in academic projects, while on the creative side, in novels, I play with point of view or polyvocality and also with non-chronological structures. I always try to challenge myself in terms of formal aesthetics and, in turn, challenge the reader to think more flexibly and more broadly about what these rigid genres (whether academic or creative) can be made to do, or say in ways that can be provocative for their audiences and occasion new ways of thinking. You’ve shared in previous interviews  that you love food culture and cooking. What meals do you consider to be your signature dishes?  That's a fun question. I don't really have signature dishes except for my granola recipe (lol) but I make a good crême caramel (the French version of flan), and cheese souffle. I also have developed a pretty good gluten-free pineapple upside-down rum cake recipe and make a good version of Haitian dous let . Otherwise, I cook across a lot of cuisines and love to discover new foods. For my novels, I research foods related to my characters’ locales and geographies and try to include relevant foods and recipes in the works (after having tried them out myself!). Outside of receiving quite a few notable awards, what has been one of the most rewarding moments of your career? Being recognized with awards, shortlistings and the rest is great and I’ve especially been gratified by being awarded the Guyana Prize (2011) and OCM Bocas Prize (2025) by Caribbean juries, but, in the end, the most rewarding moments come when you see that the work continues to circulate long after publication and also when I learn that individual readers find a resonance with some aspect of the work personally.  It's the long tail of a work after publication that is the most rewarding in the end. You were raised between Haiti and Canada and now work in California. If you were to take someone on a scenic trip about your life, what landmarks would you hit across these countries? Most of the landmarks I might have shown someone in Haiti were destroyed during the 2010 earthquake. I might show them the remains of the Cathedral in Port-au-Prince or I might take them through the mountains by car from Port-au-Prince to Jacmel or from Port-au-Prince to Cap-Haitien by road to see the beauty of the land and why Haiti means “mountains beyond mountains.” The countryside is incredibly rich despite deforestation and that might surprise people who have never been there. Of course, I would take them on a seaside drive up the coast north of Port-au-Prince. In the prairies of Canada, I would point to the expansiveness of the sky, which always seemed to me to be like the ocean upside down, and to the bright yellow of mustard fields. Here in California, I've loved discovering Joshua Tree Park but probably what I love the most is going to the ocean. I've ended up in a place much like where I was born, with the ocean on one side and the mountains on the other.  How can people support you right now? Buy my books through your favorite Indie bookstore or bookshop.org . Find out more about what is going on in Haiti and support grassroots organizations there (I have a list of organizations of different sizes who are accountable to Haitians that people can follow posted on my website: www.myriamjachancy.com ). Follow me on my IG @myriamjachancy and come to my events when you can! Name another Black woman writer people should know.  Some emerging writers that have impressed me lately include Ayanna Lloyd-Banwa, a Trinidadian UK-based writer, and short story writers Annell López, who is Dominican American, and Juliana Lamy, who is Haitian American. ### Torch Literary Arts  is a 501(c)3 nonprofit established to publish and promote creative writing by Black women. We publish contemporary writing by experienced and emerging writers alike. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Click here to support Torch Literary Arts.

Patricia Spears Jones is a celebrated poet, playwright, and educator. She served as the New York Poet Laureate from 2023-2025. Arkansas-born Patricia Spears Jones has lived and worked in New York City since 1974.  She is a poet, playwright, educator, cultural activist, and anthologist and was appointed New York State Poet (2023-25) and a Poet Laureate Fellowship from The Academy of American Poets and the Mellon Foundation. She is the recipient of the 2017 Jackson Poetry Prize from Poets & Writers. She received a Lifetime Achievement Award from The Porter Fund in 2024 and an Honorary Doctor of Humane Letters degree from Hartwick College in 2025. She received awards from the New York State Council on the Arts, the Foundation for Contemporary Art, Goethe Institute, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the New York Foundation for the Arts. She is author of  The Beloved Community  and A Lucent Fire: New and Selected Poems  and three full-length collections and five chapbooks. At the Rauschenberg Residency, she published Collapsing Forrest City, Photo   Giclée .  The Devil’s Wife Considers  is forthcoming from A Song Cave. Her poems are in several anthologies among them:  250 Years of African American Poetry; 2017 Pushcart Prize XLI: Best of Small Presses; Of Poetry and Protest: From Emmett Till to Trayvon Martin, and Angles of Ascent: A Norton Anthology of Contemporary African-American Poets,  and in journals such as About Place Journal ;  Paterson Literary Review; Cutthroat Journal; alinejournal.com/convergence ; The New Yorker  and The Brooklyn Rail .  She co-edited ORDINARY WOMEN: An Anthology of New York City Women Poets  (1978) and edited THINK: Poems for Aretha Franklin’s Inauguration Day Hat (2009) .  Her plays “Mother” (music by Carter Burwell) and “Song for New York: What Women Do When Men Sit Knitting” (music by Lisa Gutkin) were commissioned and produced by Mabou Mines. Sugar baby caramel swear dust might fuss When you leave sugar babies out too long, they will swear you have to stack all the dust the bookshelves with all your might or truly Sugar baby will make a bigger fuss something about lost love broken promises burnt caramel crystalline as sugar spreads on the floor on the floor Mystery The essence of a mystery particularly a murder mystery is trust Because murder is intimate, most victims know their killer. The killer could be your father, your mother, your son Your daughter, a cousin, an aunt, an uncle, your best friend From first grade, your first ever boyfriend or your mistress Or a co-worker who loves to waltz but only tells you, victim Only you. Who trusts your mother, father, son, daughter Who sees the cousin on occasion or your aunt and uncle At important family gatherings-weddings, funerals Graduations. That first ever lover returns from years In a bad marriage, your mistress has for years suffered Your bad marriage. And suddenly something is amiss Promises left dangling –the fearsome psychic cliff Or love slashed by money or pain—an illness the brain Sodden with the fevers of some romance (dime store) Dime store—no one has dimes anymore or coins Of the realm, but there it is again that moment When knife plunges or the gun reports and reports The tea is almond scented. The patron falls face forward Onto the table. The victim’s china cup a gift from Her killer. Many claim lack of love or greed or anger Precipitates the act, but why this lack—the greed Calculated easily-the will, stocks, bonds, trust Funds-there again that trust-how did it depart Quickly, slowly, as the seasons moved from cold To arm to cold again. Your arms no longer hold Embraces tender enough or lustful enough or Who will ever know—a ruined body photographed And pinned to the police detective’s board. A careful display of someone who forgot somehow To fear kin as well as kith--do not drink that Almond scented tea. FOR THE SOLSTICE, June 20, 2024 Well You would think a poet could so easily say what needs to be said And sometimes that is true, but That awkward phrase, the botched flirtation, the sudden need to Correct the message Happens all the time We roar and wrap and cling and throw words around as if we are playing A mad game sort of soccer meets dodgeball, and the weather is always Quarrelsome. Sunlight just over the raining clouds. The Devil is working again. Striking his wife and screaming at his children Beasts in Saville Row suits groveling in the money pits of financial capitals Around the world Oh how clumsy this image, the suits, the groveling and yet The spoils of Corruption are manifest and almost everywhere. A poet worried About the phrase that makes the sonnet zing, well the poet cares. But Big Corruption uses the economy of language i.e. MONEY IS BLISS WHO CARES FROM FRAUD MY ROLEX IS BIGGER THAN YOURS How to capitalize on this trend is but what awaits the darling graduates—their Mastery certified, but all else precarious. It is why wine matters on certain occasions Pleasure must be measured, thus the toast, the clink, the glad end of difficult days. MOTHER (an excerpt) A play with lyrics based on MOTHER by GORKI and other sources. for MABOU MINES RECRUITMENT: (SON AND MALE REVOLUTIONARY) SON: Just the other day, I heard a peasant say, "There's no road leading away from the poverty; all roads lead to it, and none out of it". We have to change these beliefs--that our lot in life is cast at birth. REV. LEADER: You have begun to discern the true situation of the oppressed. You will work well for the movement. While I commend your assertion, you must understand the despair, the resignation of the poor. They are often blind to their complicity in their own tyranny. SON: But why, it seems so clear to me.... REV. LEADER: But you question your position, you have found the words, the ideas that analyze oppression. You have looked beyond your own condition and you know now why we must organize and agitate to bring this new knowledge to those who only now have an inkling of how they have been and continue to be exploited. SON: But they know . My father- may he rest in peace, for he had none in his life-worked so hard. So very hard. He was a big man who handled heavy machinery. And he took on larger tasks as he grew older, weaker. Did his wages increase? No. We became poorer. And the work was harder for him. He drank, fought with his fellow workers in the bars the ring the factory’s gates. He took his rage out on me, my mother. Beat us. Beat us, like so many others. He grew older, weaker, poorer. REV. LEADER: Yes, as do many working men who find solace in drinking and violence against those they have sworn to protect, to love. But you must realize, they understand, they accept the power of authority. They have learned how to endure oppression and replicate it in their homes. They have not learned how to oppose it. We are the ones with the tools, the necessary tools to build a new world in which tyranny is toppled, not endured. The movement is here to enlighten, to bring hope, to those who live within the shadows of poverty, powerlessness. We will create new proverbs. One could say all roads to the master’s house are roads of despair. All roads leading from the master’s house are roads of hope. And we will supply the roadmaps leading from the masters’ places. This is how the movement will help bring new ideas, make a new kind of faith for our brothers. SON: Through our literature. Our action. ------------------------------- MOTHER: Who are you talking to? SON: Just my friend. We’re just reviewing my studies. MOTHER: Bible study? SON: Yes and other things. Won’t be long. Actually, Mother, could you get me something to drink? MOTHER: More tea? -------------------------------- REV. LEADER: We can refresh ourselves later. We have much work to do. We must change our distribution plans. The conditions are timely for artful agitation given the bosses' recent acts. Their latest efforts are harsher, more desperate than we had surmised. We have to let the workers know their own strength. We have to commence the struggle. Change comes in increments, my friend, but when it comes, it is as a deluge, an avalanche, a jagged rift in society’s seamless fabric. SON: This change, this great revolution, is it far off? REV. LEADER: Not if we do our work. But you must be careful. Many oppose our work. Spies are everywhere. That is why we must organize a new distribution plan. The bosses and police are thick as, well, thieves. They probe us constantly. They have followed me across the country, throughout Europe. SON: You have been to so many cities, countries, places I only read about.   MOTHER: Do you want milk with your tea? And what about your friend?   REV. LEADER: You will get to those places in due time. That is, if we don’t find ourselves imprisoned, or martyred. Does your mother know that you have a cache of forbidden books? Does she know about our work? SON: Well, I, no, she, well, I never think that anyone would bother her. REV. LEADER: You must think of all of your relationships. What does she think you’re doing? How does she feel about you? SON: She is fearful. But I tell her that I am trying to better our circumstances with my studies. There are others in the village who are suspicious. They are not literate and I am. I show her books that have no pictures, no nude women, no exotics, nothing that could be seen as blasphemous. She is grateful that I do not drink or gamble or strike her or other women. How can she be critical of me? My actions are superior to my father’s in many ways. REV. LEADER: Yes, well a chaste life helps. But even so, you must be careful. It could be by accident or design, but sooner or later unknown to you, someone will see a paper, notice an announcement, hear something you say, and then the police or the army or the boss’ hired thugs will come here. They will interrogate both you and your mother. She must be able to answer these questions for they will not hesitate to punish her as well as you or me or any of our comrades. She is only a Mother, but they will exploit her as they will exploit any means to silence us. Remember, the authorities hate our every idea, our every act. They forbid our work because our cause is just. SON: I know that. I am very careful. But so much must be done. REV. LEADER: And I sense that you will do all that is required. MOTHER: Your tea is ready.  __________________________________________________________ SPY SONG Quiet, we enter the requisite scene In search of the slips of the tongue. The secrets shared but not too discretely. We wait, we watch for the break in the bond of those whose lives are not worth living.   We wear the same hats, shoes and suits. We listen to the talk of revolution. We prick the little disputes that questions these tiresome solutions to a status quo who desires only lives worth living. There’s the mother There’s the son There’s the rebel There’s the nun And we believe that not one has a life worth living.   We are silent in stuffy rooms, Noisy in beat-up chairs, As they talk of ideologies one by one. We are the ones for whom no one prepares As we find new ways to cause great harm to those who do have lives worth living. ___________________________________________________________   MOTHER AND SON ARGUMENT MOTHER: Does your friend publish these books? SON: Yes. They are very important. There’s knowledge that our people need, that our enemies, the government, want to suppress. MOTHER: Enemies? Our government? What kind of talk is this? Who are these people? We have to be careful. We don’t have much money. Your job could be in jeopardy. We could lose our home. What are you doing? SON: Mother, this is very important work. We can improve our lives if we clearly understand the economic situation. It should not be reasonable  that there is widespread poverty, ignorance, fear. That young men are conscripted for wars in which no one wins but the wealthy. Working men face the same enemy day in, day out. Mother, that enemy killed father. These men devalue our labor, yet demand much more of it! It is brutal… MOTHER: Brutal! What do you know of brutality, of work! You’re a boy! You read a few books. Befriend unsavory people. Bring home these problems. Every day I feed you, clean this house… SON: Mother, these problems did not start with my friends or these books. You simply have no idea of the crisis that working men face. Father did die at the hands of his enemies. MOTHER: He died a drunk! SON: Yes, drunk from years of toil. And for what: this mortgaged house, schools that almost left me illiterate, religious faith that even you do not adhere to. MOTHER: It is these books, these ideas!   End of scene THE INTERVIEW This interview was conducted between Patricia Spears Jones and Jae Nichelle on August 29th, 2025. Thank you so much for sharing an excerpt of Mother . I would love to hear more about how this script came to be and your experience with producing it. “Mother” was commissioned by Ruth Malaczech, the late great actress and one of the co-founders of Mabou Mines. I’d known the company’s work from 1973 when they performed as part of the Dilemma Symposium at Rhodes College, known then as Southwestern at Memphis.  The first time I saw a Beckett play was when they performed “Come and Go.” And I saw the first iterations of The B-Beaver Animation , authored by Lee Breuer. Ruth, Lee, Joanne Akalitis,  Phillip Glass, David Warrilow and Fred Neumann had formed their company while in Paris and then they returned to North America and held up in Nova Scotia at Mabou Mines, thus the odd,  exotic name. I was fascinated by the company’s play development-they could take weeks, months, years to perfect a work. Lee was the authorial force, and all the actors were stellar. They did work unlike any other. When I came to New York City, my ex-boyfriend and other friends from Southwestern had moved to New York to work with Lee and pursue their artistic inclinations. I know major background, fast forward two decades and what I realized was that  Ruth was a huge fan of my poetry. She bought my books and gave them to others. She thought I  could write a play.  So, Ruth was working with John McGrath, a talented young director on Brecht’s version of  Gorky’s novel, Mother, but they just weren’t feeling it. You must go all in with Brecht or do something else. They decided to do something else and so asked me to tackle the project. Oh, that Russian novel was dark and murky, the peasants illiterate, workers exploited and revolutionaries bloodthirsty, etc. But at its heart was a blueprint for radicalization and organizing through the mother’s evolution. I wrote the piece with Ruth in mind—I knew her acting gestures, her vocal tics, and I was also thinking of my mother and her struggles and the struggles of mothers held down by economics, lack of education, class status, and partner loss. I started the play as a very conventional piece and Ruth basically said we don’t want that. I got a 3-day  residency at Vassar College, sat in a dorm room with a writing desk and wrote a more unconventional first draft. I also had to keep in mind that this was a collaboration with a musician, the amazing Carter Burwell, then known for his cinema scores for the Coen Brothers films, so I also had to write song lyrics. What I did with the play was introduce the character of the spy and the wealthy female revolutionary and with that I could expound on the Gorky blueprint but make it my own. Moreover, I allowed the mother her own sense of the erotic and the whimsical, even as she suffers indignities and fights for justice, so fiercely she must go underground. The casting was deliberately multi-racial and multi-ethnic. We also collaborated with visual artists, musicians, and dancers. John McGrath has some seriously great staging ideas. When we premiered at La Mama, we used all the tiers in that huge space, from mini  “domestic islands” to a “jail.” If the company had more resources, we could have moved it to a different theater, and it would have sold out.  It was a revelation to see the play performed four years ago as part of Mabou Mines’ 50 th  Anniversary and as it was ending, people came into the theater telling me that thousands were in the streets protesting SCOTUS rescinding Roe v. Wade. As the Emotions sang “we have come a long way, we still got a long way to go.”  I’m so struck by the line in “For the Solstice,” that “You would think a poet could so easily say what needs to be said.” How do you work on saying “what needs to be said?” I like to use refutation as a strategy, and “For the Solstice, June 20, 2024” utilizes this. Poets are tasked, too often, with making sense of the senseless in language that is concrete and yet transformative. There is little ease in doing this kind of work. In many ways, the poem is an Ars poetica—what does it take to make a poem that speaks on the terrible things we face daily (at this point it seems hourly) and yet find pleasure in our capacity to breathe, communicate, drink what offers solace. Every poet on this planet understands the precarity of our lived experience and how that affects our linguistic gifts. People do think we easily say what needs to be said—but  every poet knows that is otherwise and we muddle, mangle, or clarify words to find “the glad end of difficult days.” In  a 2024 interview , you’ve described yourself as a “flâneuse,” inspired by chance glimpses, overheard lines, art, scents, and the subway. Which sensory encounter most recently sparked a poem for you, and what made it resonate? Scott Hightower in a review of The Weather That Kills called me a “flaneuse” which I guess is the female version of flaneur. But it so makes sense. Urban-based poets, especially we who live in New York City, find ourselves given words, phrases, stories every time we take the subway, go to a performance, overhear a dinner conversation, which may be super intimate or silly. You have to get out and walk about, which is what a flaneuse does. My greatest issue as I age is loss of mobility. I used to walk like 5-10 city blocks and just take in whatever local color there was.  One of my first truly successful poems was 14 th Street/New York and the poet’s I (me) walks across the boulevard—my favorite segment was about First Avenue. In The Beloved Community ,  the streets of Brooklyn get the same kind of attention. I owe much of this to Frank O’Hara, the ultimate flaneur of New York City—he gave us the foundation for both seeing the city and finding ways to truly talk about it or any other urban place where accidental intimacy, startling visuals, and comic or tragic speech (note the poem “Somethings in the air” from The Beloved Community ) is available. You must have your mind, eyes, ears, and your heart open to receive the information. You’ve lived in New York City since the 1970s and have previously said you arrived with only $3 in your pocket . How has your sense of belonging—and your creative identity—evolved in the city over decades of writing, activism, and teaching? I am writing a memoir of my time as a young woman poet in the 1970s. I lived downtown,  which means I jumped headfirst into polyglot New York. All kinds of people from every kind of background could be found in the East Village. But most importantly, the Village and lower  Manhattan were where artists lived, and you know, within a week of coming to the city with friends on a break, I knew I had to stay. I was born to live in New York City. Those comedies and cop shows and movies that painted a rather complex vision of the place I now call home did not prepare me for the cold, the economic instability, the obstacles. But I grew up in Forrest  City, Arkansas during the last decades of legalized segregation, so I knew how to make a way from no way. I did, and so many others have. I had no real ambitions or ideas of what I would do and I am glad that I allowed myself to experience this place, those difficulties and figure out how to make a life that allowed and allows me to always learn something new, something different to inspire me to not go with the “okey doke” in my poetics, in my politics, in my struggles to make the world or my part of it better. I know that I am extremely lucky. I have suffered economic instability, but I have not been homeless. No one has sexually assaulted me; I walk into all kinds of places with the assumption that I should be in this museum or that gallery or at the opera or listening to experimental jazz musicians blow their minds out. That’s why David Murray wrote a song for me. That’s why poets have dedicated works to me. That’s why Jane Dickson used my image in her mosaic project for Times Square. I am literally in the architecture of New York City—I so belong. On the subject of New York, you’ve participated in the local literary scene by curating with The Poetry Project and so much more. Looking back, how did these early spaces and community interactions shape both your poetics and your activism? I have started to write about my poetry years in New York City; it’s been fascinating revisiting spaces that both welcomed and terrified me. New York City in the early 1970s was very open,  slightly deranged as the economy tumbled and the city lost its shimmer. The East Village was poor, the people, the buildings, but for artists it was rich—those buildings were cheap, the people fairly friendly in that check you out first, then see if I go with you, New York City sort of way. It was the first place where then 5 ft 2 ½ inches me towered over these short people from around the world. It was where you could go to the grocer at 2 in the morning. Where you could leave your laundry. It was where you could starve or freeze to death. Welcomed and terrified. So, I  dived in because I was not returning to Arkansas or Tennessee, or Georgia, and I was not interested in the West. In My First Reading , I talk about the Poetry Project workshop, what leadership looks like—I think I am a disciple of Lewis Warsh.  In another unpublished piece, “Body Heat” I explore the East Village poetry scene through the lens of experiences with the Nuyorican Poets Café. Throughout the early 1970s, poets around  New York City created reading series in cafes, churches, bars, and independent art galleries.  There were organizations and workshops everywhere. The Harlem Writers Guild, the Frederick  Douglass Center, Basement Workshop, the Nuyorican Poets Café, and the Poetry Project were the more prominent ones. Bob Holman and others created a Weekly Poetry Calendar. Many of the poets were aligned with activists’ groups, but much of this was ad hoc. We were young and trying to figure out what we wanted in our lives and how we were going to live them.    Fortunately, I got to meet and work with Steve Cannon, Lorenzo Thomas, Maureen Owen, June Jordan, Adrienne Rich, Audre Lorde, Barbara Barg, Fay Chiang, Thulani Davis, Susan Sherman, Cynthia Kraman, Michelle Wallace, Faith Ringgold, Margo Jefferson, Charlotte Carter, Marie  Brown, David Earl Jackson, Jessica Hagedorn, Lois Elain Griffith, Safiya Henderson Holmes,  Sekou Sundiata, Melvin Dixon, Gary Lenhart, Sara Miles, and Sandra Maria Esteves, who with Fay and me published Ordinary Women: An Anthology of New York City Women Poets with a foreword by Adrienne Rich. You can see by this partial list of poetry players that I was part of an extraordinary cohort. We worked together on different events, journals, benefits—anti-war, anti-apartheid, civil and human rights. My curatorial stance was always to bring diverse poets—by race, gender, or aesthetics together—I’ve always seen art as service to the expansion of human consciousness. Sometimes conflicting aesthetics, etc., did not work, but often something refreshing happens. At the Project ,I really pushed for the inclusion of poets of color in an organization that prided itself on its radical roots, but was still a mostly White male space, even as I was the Program Coordinator, while Eileen Myles was the Artistic Director. It was tense,  difficult, but I got more folks through the door. I have often been the “first one” in—the Black pioneer. For some, that position led to greater positions, for me it did not. But I look back with a great deal of pride in that I opened doors, did not back down, learned how to navigate difficult people in complex spaces, because this was safe, but you know what, I WAS NEVER BORED.  Now decades later, I understand how and why we must never retreat from our principles and our demands for justice, inclusion, and power. Never. Whether it is how we curate a program, organize a panel, dor evelop a community-based project, as a poet and writer, I know it is best to go with your gut and not worry about who is going to police you because somebody somewhere always will.  As the New York State Poet Laureate (2023–2025) and recipient of the Academy of American Poets fellowship, you shaped public poetry initiatives. What most excites you about your public work? I thoroughly enjoyed my time as State Poet; I was most unwilling to give up my invisible crown.  I can’t say the many trips up the Hudson were always fun, but I got to go to the Adirondacks, to Rochester, where I worked with Writers & Books on my Poet Laureate Fellowship Project, to Syracuse, and serve on a panel about laureates at the 2025 AWP. I am very proud of the Across  Generations Workshop Model I developed and launched with Writers & Books in Rochester. I  was able to produce a program, curate workshop leaders, so I could pay other poets to do their wonderful work and offer Master Classes. On top of that, because of the State Poet appointment,  Hartwick College reached out to me and gave me an honorary Doctor of Humane Letters degree at their Commencement in May. I am from Arkansas, so it has been fascinating to be the state poet for New York. But like so many others, I migrated to New York City at the tail end of  The Great Migration, and while I did not flee hardships as so many before me, I did flee what felt like a very stifling and limited life. I am glad I got in a car with friends and came up North. I brought some of my enthusiasm and my questions to the sites—why in a town where every street has some edifice of Frederick Douglass, there is such poor political leadership on the part of Black and Brown people (Rochester); what would it take to get more folks of color to the Adirondacks; how do we connect with union organizers in New York City (that proved very difficult), etc. I hope that many poets find ways to use the Walt Whitman prompt I developed and seek to create intergenerational workshops. We need to talk to each other across generations. I don’t write for the youth or the elderly or women or queer people or veterans, I write for anyone who reads and wants to seek in language a deeper consciousness. Also, knowing that I was on the same list as Audre Lorde, who was an early champion of my work, made me happy— she looks on all the poets she mentored and tells us to keep kicking doors open, and party when you can. How can people support you right now? Oh, who could be my patron—send me $3,500 per month for the rest of my life, then I wouldn't worry about groceries or rent. Well, if that’s not how you can help me, do read my poetry, buy books, come to workshops I hold, invite me to your campus—my booking agent is The Shipman Agency . But mostly, you can help me and all poets, but especially we Black women poets, by keeping our voices honest, open, and fierce. I do not shy away from being a strong Black woman. I am also quite sensitive, but if armor is called for, I put it on. I did not grow up middle-class, so my expectations were never assumed. I did grow up in a home where reading, thinking, and education were encouraged and praised. I am one of those first in her family to go to college. I am one of those in my family to travel abroad, and not because I was in the military. I hope that you read, think, and educate as long as you live. Reading, thinking, and educated people help poets. And we are grateful for thoughtful, serious, critical readings of our work. Too few poets, and I am one of them, have been given serious critical attention—those peer-reviewed book reviews, essays, etc. may not seem important, but they really are. Name another Black woman writer people should know. CHARLOTTE CARTER . She started as a poet, a fabulous prose poet, but now she writes very smart, sexy murder mysteries. ### Torch Literary Arts  is a 501(c)3 nonprofit established to publish and promote creative writing by Black women. We publish contemporary writing by experienced and emerging writers alike. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Click here to support Torch Literary Arts.

Grace Morse (she/they) is an essayist from New Orleans, Louisiana, currently living in Galicia, Spain. Her work can be found in various publications and has been recognized as a finalist for CRAFT Literary Magazine’s 2023 Flash Prose Prize and BRINK Literary Journal for Hybrid Writing Award in 2024. Morse is the winner of the BRINK’s 2025 Emerging Writer Fellowship in Hybrid Writing award, with their essay-in-archives forthcoming in the Spring 2026 journal. A scholar of Spanish and English literature and international studies, Morse was a 2025 Fulbright Open Study/Research and Creative & Performing Arts Semifinalist. They earned their MFA in Nonfiction from the University of Iowa’s Nonfiction Writing Program, where they also received teaching and writing awards from the department and the Graduate College. Beyond the classroom, she had the privilege of collaborating with arts institutions such as The Englert Theatre and Porchlight Literary Arts Centre, where they were the 2023-2024 Nonfiction Writer/Teaching Fellow-in-Residence and a 2025 instructor of memoir and ekphrasis respectively. Higher Power Deep in Gringolandia, I shivered in front of the white security guard at the discoteca. Against my better judgment, I didn’t choose to wear a jacket to protect me from the cold, Quiteño air as Ecuador’s Top 50 playlist bled into the streets. His body acted like a barricade, blocking the club’s front entrance while he traced the edge of my driver’s license. Qué hermosa foto, he said, gripping the plastic. He observed the seventeen-year-old version of me: straight posture, floral shirt, relaxed hair. In front of him, I was slump-shouldered, newly twenty, donning Fulani braids. Beyond him, lights flashed rainbows. The wind cocooned us. The guard put my ID on a metal weighing device. He waited to read the weight of my ID from the scale, eyes landing on my nipples, which were hard and brown beneath my cheap tank top. The scale beeped, and his eyebrows bunched in confusion or frustration. Little pools of tears formed at the corners of my eyes. It was fucking cold. All the travel blogs I read about Ecuador mentioned the spring-like weather that the country is blessed with due to its position on the equator. Coming from New Orleans, I didn’t appreciate the nuance of the seasons; I knew sopping heat, I knew merciful heat, and I knew the kind of heat that masqueraded as chill. February in Quito offered cool days, rainy days, and cooler evenings. Fractures of colorful light illuminated a broad silhouette. I heard his voice before I saw him: Hola, preciosa. ¿Quieres divertirte o qué? Of course I did. That was the reason I came there, alone, to one of the city’s most popular bars. I had done my due diligence, which is to say I scoured Yelp reviews, and found a chorus of similar praises; locals and travelers agreed that the three-story bar wasn't a great place to do questionable things with friendly strangers to pop music. Though not entirely visible from the ground floor, there was a set of stairs tucked beside a back wall that led to three more floors with bars, televisions, couches, and dark rooms with doors that locked. Mira su ID, the guard said to the man I could not see, the only person who seemed willing to help me. ¿Es falsa, verdad? Cállate, the newly visible man, reprimanded the guard. Déjala pasar. I was pulled towards him, and the top of my torso grazed his wide, welcoming chest. My body bounced back, gaze averted. He winked, and then I noticed the row of tiny, cropped curls that spiraled from his head. Flashlight in his hand, he asked for my purse. Mi bolsita? I asked. Sí, mi vida. I opened the mouth of my bag, and he inspected it lazily. Later, I found my ID tucked into the inside flap of my purse like a gift. Gracias, I said, before I became bathed in the light. + Going to a dance club is intimidating even when the club isn’t at full capacity. Drinking didn’t interest me much in the U.S., but I felt relief when the pretty bartender offered two-for-five rum and Cokes. I accepted the first drink and disappeared it. There were small, circular tables at the opposite end of the room near the dance floor. Groups of girlfriends, business executives, and other university students congregated near the DJ booth. Behind them, a staircase curled upwards towards the second floor. There was an opportunity to initiate conversation with any person in that crowd; no language barrier that could stop me from small talk. What glued me to my seat was something complicated, internal, too strong to be unlodged by shitty rum or anxiety or the double-bind of the truth: I was an exchange student that nobody knew. I had the potential to be anyone, and I was also nobody. Nearly all the time, I felt alone. Three drinks in, the Coke’s sugar stopped overpowering the rum. My bones were jello. I couldn’t see him until he was beside me: the man who saved me earlier. He rested his weight on my table beside the bar, disrupting its gravity as it tilted towards me. My empty drink glasses slid; he caught them, his honey fingers splayed in front of me. Facts: his name was Geraldo. He was sorry that his coworker gave me a hard time. Racista, he said, the word slipping between his teeth. He wanted to know if I was okay, if I was waiting on friends. Sí, gracias. Ya están en camino, I lied. I was lucky enough to have a few friends, but I had ensured that none of them would be joining me that night. Leaning closer, he pointed behind him to another wooden staircase decorated with twinkle lights, their glow making the club softer than it really was. He worked up there, he said, and I could come get him if I needed anything. Qué bien, I tried to say, slippery and slinking towards tipsiness. He laughed, and suddenly, being on the receiving end of his smile made me feel beautiful. As he walked away, I willed the room to stop spinning. The shards of club light looked kaleidoscopic. I freed myself from the teetering chair, so clearly not built to hold a plus-sized body. The ice cubes that once appeared in my glass had been subdued into wimpy puddles. A group of young people, probably students at my host university, approached my newly available table. At nearly 11 PM, there was no telling what the room would look like in an hour, or even half an hour, but my focus was on making sure that I didn’t miss any steps as I ambled up to the second floor, towards this stranger, hoping his attention could save me from whatever I was actually running from. + Hours before I made it to the club, I wiped a tissue from my host mom Elisa’s desk and cleaned her Jesus figurine’s brown, circular head. He hung above the bed in her guest room, arms pinned perpendicular from his legs, and sometimes the dust from the ceiling fan coated him in a fluffy, gray smog. Once the figure was clean, I went towards my dresser and gave her angelitos the same treatment, careful not to smudge their naked, porcelain bodies with my thumbprints. Between Jesus, the angels, and all the other religious figures spread throughout the apartment, I often joked that I felt surveilled at all times. Elisa went to Misa every Sunday. When I left her third-story apartment to go to the university, I stooped down so she could kiss my cheek and give me my daily Dios te bendiga. When her sisters’ husbands asked me if I went to church while we ate churrasco at Sunday lunch, I told them that my family belonged to an African-American church. Though confident in my Spanish, spoken by distant ancestors on my father’s side and refined at school, it was difficult to explain the intricacies of the Southern, Black Baptist church, including the reasons why I didn’t actually consider myself a part of it despite my father being a reverend. My feelings toward God felt simple: I was grateful for my life and the opportunity to exist, and I believed that a force higher than me was responsible for my presence on Earth. I didn’t mind stretching my mouth wide, embracing that open vowel, calling that spirit “God”. But I resented the pressures and performance of organized religion as I had experienced it. I hated that the church I attended in my early teenage years had different rules for people of different genders, that each structure felt inherently patriarchal. I didn’t understand the duality of how I could be unworthy, sinful, inherently flawed, and yet also beautiful, a marvel, by virtue of being shaped in God’s image. I felt judged by the elder members of the church, which is to say, the vast majority of the congregation. Church was the first place that I learned how to exit my body, and that severing, though protective, was not one I was ever meant to master. But at the time, my feelings about God didn’t matter; the night I went to that club, I had to appeal to her Ecuadorian Jesus and the rest of the divine entourage because I was doing everything common sense (and the university orientation) said not to do: going somewhere alone as a woman, at night, hoping to hook up with a stranger. My host mom and I had a wonderful relationship, but that Friday evening was the first time I had lied to her about my plans. When I told Elisa I was going to meet some friends at an art gallery, she insisted I bring an unsexy coat to keep myself warm. It didn’t go with the outfit, but I took it and kissed her on her wrinkled cheek. Inside the doorway to her apartment, she prayed for me. Walking down the steps into the frosty Quito night, I would like to think that I said a small prayer for her, too. + Upstairs on the second floor of the discoteca, squeezed into a stall in the women’s bathroom, Geraldo insisted he was too big for condoms. He had brought me another drink that night, frowning each time I sipped it instead of chugging. We had chatted about where we were from and my time in Ecuador before making out on the patio, each kiss enthusiastic and inexact. To avoid being caught on the cameras, he brought me to the bathroom. His big brown hands explored the expanse of my lower back before he positioned himself behind me. My top was on the floor, or resting on the top of the toilet, or wedged between the wall and the tampon receptacle. A floor below us, the DJ sloppily switched to another song, each beat banging against the walls. I stiffened, and he unlatched his mouth from my nipple to meet my gaze. ¿Qué pasa, princesa? ¿Todo bien? He tickled my chin, and I laughed uncomfortably. It was hot, and I was tired, and whatever fantasy I had about desirability being a balm for loneliness had dissolved. I wanted to escape the feelings of isolation I had known so closely during my study abroad. People responded to and made assumptions about my Black, fat (reclamatory), tattooed body in a myriad ways. Often, I oscillated between feelings of invisibility and hypervisibility. Almost always, I felt alone. Contéstame, baby, he said. His handsome face was still smiling, but his voice had been laced with a command. Claro, guapo. Todo bien, I said. He proceeded to flirt with the hem of my jeans before removing them and christening my hips with kisses. Without actively deciding to, my body gave my mind permission to wander, and I floated away. When I returned to myself, he had cleaned himself up, zipping up his pants, half grinning. He kissed me for the final time and I stood there. I believe I offered my cheek. My head hurt from all the times he had gripped the crown of my afro in his fists. When his manager texted him asking where he was, he helped me pull my shirt on. His movements were suddenly gentle, and I leaned into that softness. Me gustas mucho, he said. He asked for my cellphone, and I recited a string of numbers I simultaneously hoped were and were not correct; my phone had died, and I still had not memorized my Ecuadorian phone number. I asked him to call me a cab and was so grateful that his “yes” was unconditional. Briefly, I wondered if this could be the start of a new relationship. Perhaps there was a world where we could date, and put this night behind us, chalk it up to some drunken night that yielded some clandestine relationship. I could learn, I thought as we stood outside the club doors, how to like his roughness. Shouldn’t I have felt flattered? At my PWI back in the United States, people flirted with my white friends and ignored me. Though students at my host university were outwardly very kind, my experience in social situations was similar. When Geraldo reached for my hand and kissed it, I felt somehow lucky: it didn’t matter if our time together was good or bad, but rather that I had been chosen for it. He had seen me, at least some version of me, and found favor with her. The cab driver who eventually arrived was an old, sullen man. He spent the ride commenting on my body, and when I struggled to unbuckle my seatbelt, he kissed me. I don’t remember how I got back to my apartment lobby, or how long his hand lingered on my leg. But there is the squeal of tires, a red ribbon slicing down the street, a fleeting fear that bubbled inside of me as I watched his cherry car drive away. + The morning after my night with Geraldo, the weather was warm. The neighborhood looked characteristically beautiful all bathed in that aureate light. Elisa had wrapped herself in an expensive scarf and tiptoed down the stairs so her sister could drive them to church. I had tried to go with her once to be respectful, but I usually spent Sundays reading or hanging out with my friends, the closest of whom were also students at my home university. I texted one of them, a junior named Rebecca, and asked if she would accompany me to the farmácia. As we walked, cars passed us on the sidewalk, the rims of their cars crystallizing under the sunlight. The pill that I needed was pink and circular. It cost about five dollars. The internet generally advised against taking two, even though the effectiveness of la píldora del día después was questionable for people who weighed over 150. I felt ashamed, not for the fact that I had been intimate, but that I had done so without the proper means to take care of myself. Pregnancy, however unlikely, was not an option. I hadn’t bothered to ask Geraldo if he got tested regularly, though I can’t imagine how that conversation would have gone or if I would have believed him. My thoughts raced and Rebecca stood beside me, offered me her hand, and helped me take deep breaths as I went to the back of the drug store to retrieve my contraception. Afterwards, we went to the grocery store, where she bought me a Gatorade and a slice of cheese pizza. I wouldn’t take it on an empty stomach, she said, her voice sweet and slow. Neither of us was religious, so it felt strange to ask if we could pray. Moreover, I didn’t know who I was praying to: I spent years knowing what I didn’t believe in, but I hadn’t yet had the time or space to discover what I believed in. I only had that one word, and I repeated it to myself as I walked back to my host mom’s apartment: God, God, God. Once in a while, I inserted another word: please. Weeks passed, and when my period came, I felt euphoric. After I had returned to my campus in North Carolina, still remembering the anxiety of taking the pill and hearing conflicting information about its efficacy for people over a certain weight, I went to a Black gynecologist at our Campus Health Services and requested a referral for birth control. After consulting with her, we agreed on an IUD and scheduled an appointment. I had never seen one before, so she showed it to me: it was small, T-shaped, tubular. The insertion was relatively painless and covered by my student insurance. A dear friend, Sally, picked me up afterwards and drove me home, offering me a baggie of tea from her cupboard and some herbs I could boil on the stove. + A month and a half later, hunched over a nail salon’s toilet in some fancy part of Oakland, I lifted my head. I had moved to California for the summer to do an internship and spend time with my aunt, who had lived in the Bay for some years and told me beautiful stories about how great it was for Black creatives. We had been walking along Lake Merritt when I felt unsoothable stomach pain. I had tried to ignore it, opting to get my nails done while my aunt and my mom enjoyed a rooftop nearby. With half a hand of acrylics, I asked to use the bathroom and immediately got sick. My body pulsed, my head hot. Eventually, when the sickness stopped, I forced myself to look around the bathroom. As I bundled some toilet paper and cleaned up, there was a small white object in the mouth of the toilet bowl. Turning the light on, I saw it more clearly: beneath the harsh overhead light, resting in the toilet’s mouth, was my IUD. It floated peacefully in the water, looking almost like a cross. I reached for it, and it slipped away, sinking deeper and deeper towards the bottom. ### Torch Literary Arts  is a 501(c)3 nonprofit established to publish and promote creative writing by Black women. We publish contemporary writing by experienced and emerging writers alike. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Donate to help Torch amplify Black women writers.

< Back Torch Literary Arts Returns as a Partnering Organization for the 2025 Texas Book Festival Nov 5, 2025 Over two days, Torch will host poets Tiana Clark and Donika Kelly in Austin for a series of inspiring readings and conversations. Austin is a city of festivals and events that draw visitors from around the world. One of our favorite festivals at Torch is the Texas Book Festival. Joining as a partnering organization for the fourth year in a row, we’re proud to bring in Tiana Clark and Donika Kelly for readings and conversations, and host a powerful lit crawl full of Torch Features and friends. Poet, professor, and essayist, Tiana Clark, will join us to read from Scorched Earth , a 2025 National Book Award finalist. Her work touches on her life-changing experiences with divorce, self-love, queer discovery, and bliss. Donika Kelly is a poet and professor at the University of Iowa, and author of The Natural Order of Things . Her work touches on radical love and attention to the happenings in the world around us. You can catch Torch’s amazing events at Black Pearl Books, the Texas Capitol, or Cheer Up Charlies in community with other renowned Black women writers sharing their work. Check out our three events below: Thursday, November 6, at Black Pearl Books: Join us for a free kickoff reception and reading featuring our two Texas Book Festival features, Donika Kelly and Tiana Clark, as they read from their official Texas Book Festival-selected books in Austin’s Black-owned bookstore, Black Pearl Books. Learn more and RSVP here . Saturday, November 8, at the Texas Capitol: In partnership with Texas Book Festival, join Tiana Clark and Donika Kelly at the Texas Capitol as they discuss their literary works. We’ll delve into their backgrounds, the inspiration behind their writing, and much more. Learn more about the conversation online here . Saturday, November 8, at Cheer Up Charlies: In partnership with Texas Book Festival, join us at 7:45 p.m. for an electric evening of poetry and fiction by award-winning authors C. Prudence Arceneaux, Ebony LaDelle, Carrie R. Moore, Esther Ifesinachi Okonkwo, Fabienne Josaphat, and Amanda Johnston (host). Learn more about the Lit Crawl online here . Texas Book Festival is a nonprofit organization dedicated to celebrating the culture of literacy and ideas. This is the Texas Book Festival’s 30th year hosting the festival and is one of the largest book festivals in the nation. The festival features over 250 authors at events in and around the Texas Capitol and neighboring streets and venues, attracting 40,000 to the Texas capital city. For more information about Torch Literary Arts, please visit https://www.torchliteraryarts.org/ or follow @torchliteraryarts on Instagram. For more information about the Texas Book Festival, including the free event schedule, please visit www.texasbookfestival.org . About Torch Literary Arts Torch Literary Arts (TORCH) is a 501(c)3 nonprofit established with love and intention in 2006 to publish and promote creative writing by Black women. We publish contemporary writing by experienced and emerging writers alike. TORCH has featured work by Toi Derricotte, Tayari Jones, Sharon Bridgforth, Crystal Wilkinson, Patricia Smith, Natasha Trethewey, Elizabeth Alexander, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today. About Tiana Clark Tiana Clark is the author of the poetry collections Scorched Earth ; I Can’t Talk About the Trees Without the Blood , which won the 2017 Agnes Lynch Starrett Prize; and Equilibrium , which won the 2016 Frost Place Chapbook Competition. Clark’s other honors include a Pushcart Prize, a Kate Tufts Discovery Award, and fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference. She is a graduate of Vanderbilt University and Tennessee State University, where she studied Africana and women’s studies. She is the Grace Hazard Conkling Writer-in-Residence at Smith College. Find out more at TianaClark.com . About Donika Kelly Donika Kelly is the author of The Natural Order of Things , The Renunciations , winner of the Anisfield-Wolf book award in poetry, and Bestiary , the winner of the 2015 Cave Canem Poetry Prize, a Hurston/Wright Legacy Award, and a Kate Tufts Discovery Award. A recipient of a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts, she is a Cave Canem graduate fellow and Pushcart Prize winner. Her poems have been published in The New Yorker, The Atlantic, The Paris Review, and elsewhere. She is an associate professor in the English Department at the University of Iowa, where she teaches creative writing. About the Texas Book Festival The Texas Book Festival, the largest book event in Texas and one of the premier literary Festivals in the nation, returns for its 29th year on November 16–17 in downtown Austin! Free and open to all, attendees can look forward to a star-studded lineup of more than 250 authors, engaging programming for all ages, book signings, food trucks, cooking demonstrations, and a Saturday night Lit Crawl in East Austin. Learn more at www.texasbookfestival.org . Media Contact Information: Brittany Heckard Communications Associate bheckard@torchliteraryarts.org (512) 641-9251 Previous Next

Latest News Nov 5, 2025 Torch Literary Arts Returns as a Partnering Organization for the 2025 Texas Book Festival Over two days, Torch will host poets Tiana Clark and Donika Kelly in Austin for a series of inspiring readings and conversations. Read More Oct 22, 2025 Torch Literary Arts Announces Transitions to 2025 Board of Directors This board transition includes the retirement of former board secretary, Stephanie Lang, and the election of new board member, Rachel Winston Read More Oct 15, 2025 Torch Announces the 2025 Nominations for the O. Henry Prize Two Torch Features, Jennifer Coley and Jessica Araújo, are nominated for their respective short fiction stories. Read More Oct 9, 2025 Celebrating the Second Annual Donor-Advised Funds Day Torch Literary Arts encourages families and individuals with donor-advised funds to consider supporting Black women writers and the programs we offer. Read More Sep 16, 2025 Torch Announces the Nominations for the Best of the Net Eleven Torch Features were nominated for their works in creative nonfiction, fiction, poetry, and visual art in Torch Magazine. Read More Sep 2, 2025 Torch Literary Arts Announces the Torch Center Coming Fall 2025 The local Austin nonprofit organization dedicated to building community for Black women writers will now have a physical location at the LINC of Austin. Read More Aug 28, 2025 Torch Literary Arts Releases Fall 2025 Season Torch’s Fall 2025 Season includes dynamic readings, a screenwriting conversation, book festivals, workshops, and more! Read More Aug 20, 2025 Torch Announces 2026 Dates for 20th Anniversary Celebration “A Gathering of Flames” will take place in Austin, Texas, from September 25 to 27, 2026, celebrating Black women writers and 20 years of Torch’s growing community. Read More Aug 1, 2025 Celebrating Torch and Black Philanthropy Month All August Long Torch is celebrating 19 years of community and impact with CIM goals, new updates, and more! Read More Jun 5, 2025 Celebrating the Intersectionalities of Black Women Writers June is a month full of pride for queer, Caribbean, and song-filled Black women writers and the readers who love them. Read More May 28, 2025 Torch Announces New Community Impact Member Donation Initiative The Community Impact Membership (CIM) program provides Torch’s monthly donors of at least $10 and annual donors of at least $100 with exclusive items and updates. Read More Apr 24, 2025 Torch Announces the 2025 Retreat Fellows Torch returns for a third consecutive year to host eight fellows at their annual retreat for Black women writers at the Colton House in Austin, Texas, from July 20-27, 2025. Read More Apr 1, 2025 Celebrating Black Women's Contributions to Poetry All Month Long Continuing on months of celebrating Black History Month and Women’s History Month, we’re keeping the acknowledgments alive with National Poetry Month Read More Mar 27, 2025 Torch Literary Arts Awarded AWP Writing Organization Award This is the first-ever Writing Organization Award by the Association of Writers & Writing Programs, which is awarded to literary organizations based on the legacy of writing organization advocate Kurt Brown. Read More Mar 17, 2025 Torch Literary Arts Recognized at the Ireland House During SXSW with Prime Minister of Ireland Micheál Martin Torch’s “Writers Across the Diaspora” program in partnership with the Irish Consulate, Culture Ireland, and Texas State University was highlighted. Read More Mar 11, 2025 Celebrating Women’s History Month and International Women’s Day This year’s themes of moving forward together and accelerating change reinforce Torch’s mission to ALWAYS support Black women writers and the stories they share. Read More Mar 7, 2025 Torch Raises over $6,000 during Amplify Austin Campaign Joining over 700 nonprofits for one of the largest giving days in Central Texas, Torch raised over $6,000 to amplify Black women writers worldwide. Read More Feb 10, 2025 Help Torch Raise $10,000 during Amplify Austin’s 2025 Giving Campaign! For the third year in a row, Torch is participating in Austin’s metro-wide giving day to merge the Black women literary community with the wider Austin giving community. Read More Feb 10, 2025 Wintergreen Women Writers Collective and Torch Literary Arts Partner to Host Welcome Table Talks Series featuring Black Women Writers The two literary organizations dedicated to creating community for Black women writers will host a series of talks over the next three years thanks to funding from the Mellon Foundation. Read More Jan 31, 2025 Celebrating Black History Month by Acknowledging Black Women Writers and Their Contributions to Literature Torch is using this year’s Black History Month theme “African Americans and Labor” to highlight the literary work we do to share our voices. Read More Jan 24, 2025 Torch Literary Arts Announces 2025 Spring Season Torch’s 2025 Spring Season is full of community collaborations, readings, writing workshops, and more to empower and encourage Black women to continue telling their stories. Read More Jan 10, 2025 Torch Literary Arts to Open Applications for the 2025 Torch Retreat on February 3rd The Torch Retreat will host its third annual writing retreat for Black women writers at the Colton House in Austin, Texas from July 20-27, 2025. Read More Jan 3, 2025 City of Austin Cultural Arts Division Awards Torch Literary Arts the Thrive Grant along with Other Cultural Arts Organizations in Austin The Cultural Arts Division awarded $13 million in funds to local arts and cultural organizations for a second year with Thrive and Elevate grants. Read More Jan 3, 2025 Torch Literary Arts Announces Retirement of Board Member Dr. Omi Osun Joni L. Jones Dr. Omi Osun Joni L. Jones joined the board in 2023 bringing her expertise as an artist, performer, author, and scholar to help support Black women writers. Read More Jan 3, 2025 Welcoming the New Year with Love and Community Taking the time to thank you all for your support in 2024 and share exciting news for 2025 Read More Dec 12, 2024 'Tis the Season for Gifts & Giving Find out how to support Torch and our community sponsors and supporters this holiday season! Read More Dec 4, 2024 Torch Surpasses Fundraising Goal for 2024 GivingTuesday Campaign Joining one of the largest international giving days, Torch surpassed its fundraising goal of $5,000. Read More Nov 22, 2024 Torch Literary Arts Celebrates GivingTuesday with Community and Board Matches, Ignite the Night, and More. Torch is joining millions around the world participating in the global generosity movement on December 3, 2024. Read More Nov 22, 2024 Torch Announces the Nominations for the Pushcart Prize Six Torch Features, Erica Frederick, A. E. Wynter, Sydney Mayes, Chidima Anekwe, Chyann Hector, and Mon Misir, are nominated for their respective works. Read More Nov 15, 2024 Torch Executive Director and Features Named as Brooks Living Legacy Honorees 20 Torch community members were named Living Legacy Honorees Read More Nov 1, 2024 Torch Literary Arts to Celebrate and Amplify Black Women Writers During the 2024 Texas Book Festival Over two days, Torch will host poet, essayist, and novelist Morgan Parker and Los Angeles Poet Laureate Lynne Thompson, and embark on a literary book crawl showcasing the works of the organization’s previous features. Read More Oct 18, 2024 Torch Literary Arts Welcomes New Team Members Thanks to capacity-building funding, Torch adds a Creative Content Associate and Administrative Fellow to the Team. Read More Oct 7, 2024 Celebrating National Book Month with Torch Literary Arts This October, Torch is celebrating National Book Month with Torch Day, an inaugural international program, and much more! Read More Sep 6, 2024 Torch Announces the Nominations for the Best of the Net Nine Torch Features were nominated for their works in creative nonfiction, fiction, poetry, and visual art in Torch Magazine. Read More Sep 5, 2024 Torch Literary Arts Receives National Book Foundation Grant The National Book Foundation awarded Torch funding from the Capacity-Building Grant Program. Read More Aug 30, 2024 Torch Announces the Nominations for the O. Henry Prize Two Torch Features, Felicia A. Rivers and Lydia Mathis, are nominated for their respective short fiction stories. Read More Aug 29, 2024 Torch Literary Arts Releases 2024 Fall Season Torch’s 2024 Fall Season includes international poets, a screenwriting panel, workshops on character building and memoirs, the Wildfire Reading Series, and more! Read More Aug 2, 2024 Celebrate Torch’s 18th Birthday & Our Mission to Amplify Black Women Writers Our wish this August is to gain 18 new monthly recurring Torch supporters & more! Find out how to celebrate our birthday with events, well wishes, and donations. Read More Jul 19, 2024 Torch Literary Arts Welcomes Erin Waelder to the Board of Directors Erin was welcomed to the board in June, bringing her extensive background in development communications. Read More Jul 12, 2024 Torch Literary Arts Receives Poetry Foundation Grant Torch Literary Arts (Torch), a nonprofit organization dedicated to amplifying Black women writers, will receive funding from the Poetry Foundation. This is the nonprofit’s second year receiving funding from the foundation. Read More Jun 28, 2024 Torch Literary Arts Receives Burdine Johnson Foundation Grant This is Torch's third year receiving the grant that serves Central Texas arts, education, historical preservation, and environmental sustainability causes. Read More Jun 5, 2024 Celebrate Pride Month by Amplifying Queer Black Voices At Torch, we recognize the many impactful contributions that queer Black women writers have given us and wish a Happy Pride to all those celebrating! Read More May 31, 2024 Torch Feature Yael Valencia Aldana Receives Pushcart Prize For the second year in a row, a Torch Feature has received a Pushcart Prize for their amazing work published in Torch Magazine. Read More May 24, 2024 Torch Literary Arts to Receive Grants for Arts Allocation from the National Endowment for the Arts This is Torch's second year receiving funding from National Endowment for the Arts. Funding will go towards artist honorariums for retreats, workshops, panels, and readings. Read More Apr 12, 2024 Torch Announces the 2024 Retreat Fellows Eight fellows were selected to attend the second annual retreat for Black women writers at the Colton House in Austin, Texas from July 21-28, 2024. Read More Apr 11, 2024 Torch Literary Arts Welcomes Dana Weekes to Board of Directors Dana Weekes was welcomed to the board in March, bringing her extensive background in law and policy, and commitment to creation as self-care. Read More Apr 5, 2024 Celebrating National Poetry Month with an Ode to Poets Every April, Torch is elated to celebrate the Black women who put words to feelings by celebrating National Poetry Month Read More Mar 22, 2024 Website Updates: New Transparency Documents, Including Three-Year Strategic Plan Torch Literary Arts updates website to include transparency documents including IRS Form 990s, Annual Reports, and the 2024-2026 Strategic Plan. Read More Mar 8, 2024 Celebrating Women’s History Month and International Women’s Day Torch Literary Arts acknowledges and celebrates the many literary contributions of women to history and the wonderful Black women writers across the diaspora. Read More Feb 16, 2024 Torch Literary Arts Opens Applications for the 2024 Torch Retreat The Torch Retreat will host its second annual writing retreat for Black women writers at the Colton House in Austin, Texas from July 21-28, 2024. Read More Feb 9, 2024 Celebrating Black History & Futures 24/7, 366 days This Black History Month, Torch acknowledges the importance of amplifying Black women writers year-round. Read More Jan 30, 2024 Austin Community Foundation Announces Torch Literary Arts as one of The Black Fund Grant Partners The Black Fund’s recognition of Torch Literary Arts as a grant partner allows Torch to continue hosting special events for Black women writers in the Austin community. Read More Jan 26, 2024 Torch Literary Arts Unveils 2024 Spring Season Torch’s 2024 Spring Season is full of workshops, panels, an interactive literary cooking event, and much more to help Black women writers share their unique stories. Read More Jan 16, 2024 Torch Literary Arts Announces Transitions to 2024 Board of Directors This year’s board transition includes the retirement of former board chair, Florinda Bryant, and elections of new board chair, Dr. Sequoia Maner, new secretary, Stephanie Lang, and new board member, Shannon Johnson Read More Jan 9, 2024 Culture Ireland Awards Torch Literary Arts Funding to Host Irish Poets Torch will use the Culture Ireland funding to host Irish poets Nithy Kasa and FELISPEAKS for interactive writing workshops from October 1-7, 2024. Read More

< Back Torch Literary Arts Announces Transitions to 2025 Board of Directors Oct 22, 2025 This board transition includes the retirement of former board secretary, Stephanie Lang, and the election of new board member, Rachel Winston As a growing organization, we welcome the changes that naturally occur externally and internally, including with our board of directors. Every leader who volunteers their time to help grow and add their personal shine to our organization is appreciated and valued. That’s why we’re excited to welcome a new board member, Rachel Winston, and extend immense gratitude to retiring board secretary, Stephanie Lang. Torch welcomes our newest board member, Rachel Winston, an archivist and curator based in Austin, TX. She is the founding Black Diaspora Archivist at The University of Texas at Austin (UT Austin), where she leads the effort to build the library’s special collection documenting the Black experience across the Americas and Caribbean. Rachel holds a degree in anthropology with a minor in French from Davidson College. She is an alumna of the Coro Fellows Program in Public Affairs and received her Master’s degree in Information Studies and Museum Studies from UT Austin. Retiring after 15 years of support is Stephanie Lang, a published writer and community curator who uses the power of storytelling to explore concepts of home and resistance. She was previously the Director of Community-Driven Initiatives at the Office of the Vice President for Campus and Community Engagement at UT Austin . In 2018, after the success of multiple community curatorial projects, Ms. Lang founded RECLAIM, an organization working to discover, recover, and ultimately showcase the narratives and histories of black people throughout the diaspora, and present these findings through an artistic and thought-provoking lens. We are excited to see what we accomplish with additional insight and direction on our board, and hold dear the wisdom from past board members as well. For more information about Torch Literary Arts and our team, please visit https://www.torchliteraryarts.org/team or follow @torchliteraryarts on Instagram. ### About Torch Literary Arts Torch Literary Arts (TORCH) is a 501(c)3 nonprofit established with love and intention in 2006 to publish and promote creative writing by Black women. We publish contemporary writing by experienced and emerging writers alike. TORCH has featured work by Toi Derricotte, Tayari Jones, Sharon Bridgforth, Crystal Wilkinson, Patricia Smith, Natasha Trethewey, Elizabeth Alexander, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today. Media Contact Information: Brittany Heckard Communications Associate bheckard@torchliteraryarts.org (512) 641-9251 Previous Next