Shirley May is the author of She Wrote Her Own Eulogy and a revered figure in the UK’s spoken word scene. Photographer: Nicole May Shirley May is a first-generation Black British poet hailing from the Jamaican diaspora and a proud Mancunian. As a member of the Royal Society of Literature and a Fellow at Manchester Metropolitan University, she crafts evocative verses and leads as the CEO and Artistic Director of  Young Identity . In this role, she mentors the city's youth, inspiring them to find their voices through poetry and performance. Her debut album, Rainfall encapsulates the essence of poetry to music. Shirley’s book, She Wrote Her Own Eulogy , is a profound blend of wisdom, memory, future, and hope. Blazing with emotion and challenging all the senses, this life-affirming collection demands to be read. Shirley’s poetic prowess can also be found in numerous poetry anthologies. She was at the fore forefront  First published in the Guardian newspaper in the UK looking at the link between the slave trade is a part of a series in the newspaper about Manchester's forgotten activist it's apart of Cotton Capital look at the new papers link the transatlantic slave trade. Dedicated to Eloise Edwards MBE 1932 a birth date. The forest awakes, to bird song. de Komfa-man said ‘find you a hoatzin’s feather, when born you a grilchlild’.  Good luck will follow she. when nature's life electrifies air and the trade wind blows. Good luck will follow she.  Six years later, a daughter loses a mother, It did not follow her there Instead eternal was the banishing. A stinking. she learns resilience is living. A convent school teaching, Father’s love on frequent visits was home. Marriage a cathedral, in Georgetown in 55. It was easy to love this man with ambition.  Their love was unrestrained, provocative even. The Komfa-woman said ‘Place a feather from a hoatzin bird on the lintel of your door way and good luck will follow you. The ancient will protect you, as you seek answers to love, in a ugly world, where Mississippi was burning, love made three children and the trade wind called she to England, part of a new diaspora. She arrived carrying a grip filled with expectation and hoatzin feather and longing for Guyana. Trinkets of gold given by her father   Lockett with, She mothers photograph, Moss Side she destination. She was not ready for the levels of the cold she would encounter in England. The signs in the windows of houses said not welcome. Go home. Assassinations a killing field an unaudited litany of names, rivers of blood. A putting down of a revolution televised a jagged edge sword. Komfa-man said ‘Place a feather of the hoatzin’s bird on your mantle prepare she for battle,’ rooted an activist did Arise  Sempre Veritas (Always the Truth) Sempre Veritas (Always the Truth) commissioned by the Imperial war museum in the UK, celebrating 75 years of HMT Empire Windrush and Caribbean soldiers who fought in the second world war.  They came from islands small, It was a part of their blueprint. Churched men and women, They were water coconut, white rum and Saturday soup contentment. River people from Constitution, Wag water-rise, and Long Pond. Whose distant origins held fast to stories from Ghana's Ashanti they taught them to overstand. They were Black was the Berries, sweet was the juice Empire's shadow and emancipation's grace and truth. They were Christmas carnivals, a nation of many, yet one people. More than 10,000 souls their destination, UK For valour and glory, they came. To a land unready for their resplendent Sacrifice that could War down the strongest, Some camped in Filey for a while. This new vanguard, with overcoats and blankets to bear winter's harsh, Some were excited to see the snow on the northern plains no home comforts for twelve distinguished Bajan sons, and the daughters They heard the call to duty, first as ground crew volunteers, Yet willing to burn bright as boomer pilots if given half a chance Sacrificial lambs, as they served and survived in the army, navy, and RAF, willing to be the first to taste the bitter pill while taking to the skies, Amongst the volunteers were Engine room labourers, clerks, nurses, kitchen hands, and farmers willing to work on war-torn land. they crossed oceans deep to face racism and prejudice. Yet they remained pioneers, filled with pride for the arms of a mother. They held up at standard. Those who came from the Caribbean when they heard a call for unity. They brought the vitality of youth, and the wisdom of time. Some met a fate as casualties, others victorious adventures, Black was the Berries sweet was not this bruise, yet principled to the end, they marched for triumphal stories mixed with laughter, aspirational dreams, Those left behind will sing a praise song for souls lost to the long stillness Life's changes wouldn’t dim their remembering for so many curious minds. Those who came from Ten thousand splendid sons and daughters. Whose names we shall not forget. Alkebulan Teach me the ways of the Queens and kings of our ancestral lineage. I know the spring that wells from them, It’s one of worth and a watching, a welcome, a wonderment, of the wondering. It comes from Oshun, Yemọja, Mami Wata, Takhar and Shango. Those who wield infinitely the weight of Gods, Provide the life force to life. In them are love and liberty, loyalty, acknowledgement. My offering at your table is one Of a seeker, of scholarship and philosophy of the soothsayer waiting, so I might know the ways of Queens and kings, those who live in our past and divine our future. Belonging belongs to us. Veiled Spirit When we turn, the heart turns with you. It’s that understanding that makes you flee, the black hole of accumulating vicious talk. Recognising pestilence and the locusts that devour fields of truth, leaving no substance, only their lies. Coruscating light, diffused into fatigue, stress, squeezing life from you. Calling themselves your advocates, their armor rusts over time. No good thing is foundin those who de-light you in their greeting! When we turn,the heart turns with you. Healing is not there; dogs return to upspilled stomachs, infecting you with their pain. They air kiss you in public, looping arms through yours to make others believe lies. Your heart turns knowing their acts, will make you a victim, in time. So listen to the Goddess run for cover, find the high realms for protection. Call the Gods for their mantras, Be soothed by the balm of Gilihad. No good thing is found in those who de- light you in their greeting! The heart turns with you. Mami Wata in your thoughts, she turns with you too, giving a new perspective on life, spiritual, is your mother. Her healing mysticism, illuminating your soul. When you turn, you go back to the jars your mother taught you to drink, from, lakes of stillness, and cleansing. No good thing is found in those who de-light you in their greeting! THE INTERVIEW This interview was conducted between Shirley May and Jae Nichelle on Sept 28, 2024. In “She was at the forefront,” a poem about activist Elouise Edwards, you use repeated instruction about the power of the feather of a hoatzin bird. What led you to use this directive to carry us through the poem? The feather of a hoatzin bird symbolises something ancient and rare, representing both strength and fragility. I wanted to convey Elouise Edwards’ unique position in history—someone who carries the weight of generations, much like a bird that has evolved through centuries. The hoatzin bird is indigenous to Guyana, and that is partly why I used it in the poem. During my research, I learned that the bird is prehistoric and only found in that country. The iconology of the feather connects to the traditions of the old world before enforced religion was imposed on African people and the indigenous people of Guyana. The feather symbolised good luck, and I wanted to create a bond between the place, the people, and ultimately the concept of home. I so love the final line of “Alkebulan.” How do you remain connected to your ancestry? Staying connected to my ancestry involves a continuous process of learning, storytelling, and honouring the voices that came before me. I find this connection through the work I do with Young Identity, through writing and spoken word that reflects our shared history, and by engaging with the cultural practices and traditions that have been passed down. My writing serves as a bridge to my heritage, allowing me to explore and share those stories. My mother always plays a significant part in my writing. She influenced me to write as she always kept a journal. Part of my journey as a writer has been to jot down thoughts that come into my head—sometimes on a napkin, sometimes on the back of an envelope. Trust me, I have a bag full of bits and pieces, not just books, but fragments that reflect my thoughts. One day, I hope to put them all in order. My mother also wrote about her children and our connection to each other, which sparked my interest in genealogy. Due to the history of the Caribbean, and Jamaica in particular, I wanted to know more about our roots and our connections to the religions and folklore of our original homeland. My mother would always tell stories of Jamaica and her love for her ancestry, which inspired me to write about the grandmothers she taught me about Arabella Phipps, Ida Harvey, and my great-great-grandmother whose name was Rosina Walker. I know little about them, so as I work on this new collection, I plan to draw from my mother’s knowledge of those women and explore that history further. She Wrote Her Own Eulogy was my first collection while I’ve been in lots of different anthologies it was a privilege to be published in 2018 in my own right.   A couple of these poems were commissioned by various organizations. How do you approach a commissioned piece? What do you do if you don’t feel inspired by the subject? When I approach a commissioned piece, I always start by immersing myself in the purpose of the commission—understanding the audience, the intention, and the emotions behind the subject. If I struggle to feel inspired, I try to find a personal connection to the topic, something that resonates with my own experiences. I also allow myself space and time to explore different perspectives until I find a way in, sometimes through research or drawing on similar themes in my past work. I try to do as much research on the people as possible. If they have people who are still alive, I try to talk to them to understand a person’s character, especially if I am in contact with them. I’ve been lucky enough to know many of the women I have been commissioned to write about—like Kath Lock, Louise Da-Cocodia, and Elouise Edwards. They were all activists and friends of my mother, and they became major influences in the UK. In many ways, their activism shaped my own. I’d love to hear more about Young Identity, the youth writing collective you co-founded. What has been your favorite Young Identity event so far? What made it impactful? Young Identity has always been about giving young people a platform to express themselves authentically. My motto has been to those who have funded our organisation “Could you give me enough funding for those at risk of excelling” because so much of what we are given is about prevention when it should be about supporting young people to discover their voice. One of my favorite projects was Alphabus, a play produced in partnership with the Manchester International Festival. It’s also one of my favorite pieces because my daughter, Nicole May, was the dramaturg on this project. She is the executive director of our organisation, and her work consists of producing, writing, and directing. The project included a dance collective from the United States called The Dream Ring, directed by Reggie “Rock” Gray. They perform a type of hip-hop-forward, reggae-inspired dance called “Flexing.” The story dealt with censorship and how withholding knowledge prevents people from accessing the truth. It showed that if we only have a book with some of the words in it, we naturally seek a book that contains the whole story. The production emphasized the importance of good knowledge, and it was the biggest project Young Identity had ever done as a small community of writers on such a significant stage. It was a privilege to work with the right budget and to explore the possibilities of combining poetry, dance, and music in that way. It was impactful because it showed the potential of our work when given proper resources. What was it like recording your album Rainfall? How did you decide what musical sound you wanted to achieve? Recording Rainfall was a deeply emotional journey. I wanted to create a soundscape that felt organic, rooted in my own experiences of growth, loss, and hope. I worked closely with Clive Hunte, who wrote and produced all the music. The process started before COVID, and during the pandemic, we adapted by using remote technology—I learned how to take over my computer to record myself while Clive worked from his home. Later, we came together for post-production. The album was inspired by 20 years of writing, as I hadn’t produced much of my own work while supporting others in their poetic careers. It was an opportunity to finally share my own voice. The album was put out by Jonny Jay, a legendary producer in my hometown of Manchester, under the label T9. You can find the poetry album here: Rainfall on Apple Music . What are three songs you would recommend to someone that would give them a glimpse into your personality? I would recommend “Four Women” by Nina Simone, “Redemption Song” by Bob Marley, and “Try a Little Tenderness” by Otis Redding. Each of these songs speaks to different facets of my personality: resilience, a deep connection to freedom and justice, and an underlying tenderness and care for others. What places in Manchester feel like home to you? Old Trafford is home to me, with its rich cultural diversity, it’s also where we run some of our community workshops for Young Identity where we meet and share poetry. Additionally, Whitworth Art Gallery is dear to me. I spent a lot of my teenage years wandering through its exhibits, sitting and musing over the paintings. I remember they had an Andy Warhol piece that I loved, and I’d sit there and dream about being a dancer and an artist. Poetry didn’t come naturally to me at first as I am neuro-diverse dyslexic; however, places like the Whitworth helped me find the poetic essence in visual art. Withington Library was another important space where I discovered books and fostered a love for literature it was a safe place for me. How can people support you right now? Supporting me right now means supporting the work of Young Identity and the young voices that are growing through this community. It also means showing up for our events, sharing our stories, and advocating for the arts, especially for marginalised voices. You can buy my book She Wrote Her Own Eulogy , published by Wrecking Ball Press, or my album Rainfall. You can also support Young Identity by donating to help us continue our work with marginalised young people. Name another Black woman writer people should know. I would say that it’s difficult to name just one Black woman writer who has influenced me because most of those who have had a significant impact on me come from America. Poets like Maya Angelou, Sonia Sanchez, and Sunni Patterson—who I met at Brave New Voices—have been hugely influential. When it comes to British contemporary writers, I particularly like Tolu Agbelusi, who is a Nigerian British, poet, playwright, performer, educator and lawyer whose work addresses the unperformed self, womanhood, and the art of living. She recently published her first collection for Jacaranda's book, "Locating Strongwoman”. Writing about women's voices and experiences is important to me, and she does it well. I also admire Mahogany Browne. I met Mahogany over 20 years ago while she was on tour with Diké Omja, a British-born contemporary poet who introduced us to the art of great performance poetry  RIP Young King. What I love about Mahogany she can silence a room and make an audience listen—she’s a “Jedi” in poetry performance terms. She is, in my opinion, one of the best performance poets in the world. Her ability to captivate an audience is truly exceptional. As I mentioned there is no one black woman Poet that I would pin that accolade onto because there are so many writers and influencers of which I am under their spell. I really just want a more equitable space for black women writers. ### 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.

Savannah Balmir is a Caribbean-American writer from Mount Vernon, New York. She studied English at Howard University and earned an MFA at the University of Kentucky where she won the 2024 UK Fiction Award. Savannah was named a 2023 Emerging Scholar by the Haitian Studies Association, and she has received fellowships and residencies from Kimbilio, Oxbelly, and The Albers Foundation. Her short story “Night Riding,” published in Pinch Journal , was longlisted for the 2024 Elizabeth Nunez Caribbean American Writer’s Prize. Savannah’s writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Castle in Our Skins , Kweli , Pree , The Seventh Wave Magazine , and elsewhere. She is currently at work on a collection of short stories. At the End of Every Apocalypse is a New Apocalypse  The Greater Mercy Episcopal church yard is full of squealing and laughter, and the occasional territorial conflict. English is the lingua franca of this place and has become the currency of arguments. Yusuf and Damian quarrel about who can be goalie. They boot the same four words back and forth (Am Goalie! No, Me!) Meanwhile, the older boys patch a hopeless soccer ball with duct tape. Yusuf and Damian don’t realize that they could both be goalie, if one of them just walked to the other side of the yard.  On the concrete edge of the playground, Joy and Grace have a shared desire for one translucent hula hoop, the kind with swishing liquid and purple glitter inside. Joy calls out that she wants the hoop, but Grace gets to it first, steps into it like an invisible skirt and sticks her tongue out at Joy. Grace sets the hoop in motion, relishing in the tinkling swishhh  of every revolution. Joy’s envy gets the best of her. With one sharp jab she knocks the spinning hoop down. It falls and catches Grace’s soft sneakered ankle. Lucy, a seventeen-year-old in a yellow Greater Mercy T-Shirt, intervenes. She confiscates the hula hoop, sits the two girls out on a picnic bench.  “You guys shouldn’t fight,” Lucy reminds them. “You’re from the same place.” Joy and Grace roll their eyes, thinking how dumb Lucy is to not know the difference. The only thing they have in common is the river Zaire. The difference is de Brazza and Leopold. Jupiter and Mars.  The girls one picnic table over trade tales of their past selves, though none of them is older than fourteen. Orlendy clips plastic butterflies onto Hindou’s hijab. Asmahan uses the tip of a pencil to trace sections in Fabiola’s head. Aissatou says she has two older sisters who used to do her hair.  “What are their names?” says Heben, whose large eyes glitter under the sheen of her wide forehead pulled tight by skinny Habesha braids.  “I can’t remember,” says Aissatou.  “You can’t remember your own sisters’ names?” says Heben. Aissatou’s mouth parts and then stiches back tightly. Her eyes blunt with incomplete memory; her gaze sinks to her lap, to the red henna flowers in her palms.  Aissatou is not the only one. The entire group is caught on the question. They search their own memories for names.  “Yes, if they’re back home,” says Asmahan, nodding with the lifted eyebrows of an elder. Her long fingers pause in Fabiola’s thick hair. “If they’re back home, and you haven’t seen them, sometimes it happens. You can forget.” The girls breathe. They nod their heads too. They are learning to sift through their losses.  Nadia, who looks like a young Alek Wek, retrieves her phone from her hoodie pocket, and scrolls through her feed. The music playing from the phone lifts the general mood a bit. Heben rises to show them all her rendition of the bacardi, and then Joy gets up to join her. They skip their feet and treble their hips to the ting ting ting  of A-Star’s latest amapiano hit.  “That’s not how you do it!” says Grace, delighting in Joy’s stiff back and awkward footwork.  “Let’s look for one that teaches the steps,” Nadia says. The girls huddle together, and Nadia keeps scrolling.  In the next video, there is a body without legs. Eyes lacquered open. A skull crushed and weeping. Dust. Dust like a lace veil over curling hair, along the fan of a baby’s eyelashes. Blood like black sap, crusting on blued skin.  Silently, they watch the apocalypse. Each of them has already lived through one of their own.  In seconds, the death is gone, replaced by the tutorial Nadia had been looking for. Nobody says anything, and so they forget. They get up and dance. They record themselves and after a dozen takes, post their coordinated steps online. In a few months, when new children arrive freshly salvaged from their apocalypse, the girls will learn their names. They will invite them to the picnic table. They will brush their hair and henna their hands. They will remember, and they will forget, and they will survive.  ### 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.

Dr. Yunina Barbour-Payne is a scholar/artist whose interdisciplinary scholarship involves Africana studies, Appalachian studies, folklore, and performance. Her teaching and research areas include Black performance theory, Black theatre and performance, Theatre with and for Youth, Black feminisms, Black Appalachian performance traditions, and Affrilachian (Black artists' experiences in Appalachia) aesthetics. Barbour-Payne is currently a Postdoctoral Fellow and Rising Scholar at the University of Virginia. She earned a Ph.D. in Performance as Public Practice from the University of Texas at Austin where she was a Donald D. Harrington Fellow.  As a scholar/artist, Barbour-Payne has experience as a performer, dramaturg, director, and playwright. Originally from Louisville, Kentucky, she locates the Ensemble Theatre in Houston, Texas as her artistic home, being the first theatre to support her work as an actor on stage, director, and writer of theatre for and with youth. As an actor, some of her favorite roles include Clyde in Ground Floor Theatre’s production of Lynn Nottage’s Clydes , Edna Thomas in Penfold Theatre’s world premiere of  War of the World s , and Sally Mae in the Ensemble Theatre’s production of  Too Heavy for Your Pocket .  In addition to her stage work, Barbour-Payne combines her love of history, art, and performance through her commitment to museum theatre.  In addition to her museum theatre work, she is a dramaturg with Gesel Mason’s Performance Project’s Yes AND ,  a performance project that recenters Black womanhood as the norm and operating force in the creative process. Her life long work merges her artistry and scholarship as the founder of the Affrilachian Memory Plays , an archived-based performance inquiry for celebrating Affrilachian identity in its various creative iterations.  Tobacco Fields CHARACTERS: GIRL #9 “NINE”: An eighteen-year-old Black Kentucky GIRL. Though she has a tomboy demeanor “NINE” has glimmering potential of being fine as Dandelion wine, and everyone knows. She is often disheveled in appearance, yet lively in spirit. GIRL #7 “SEV”: A twenty-one-year-old Black Kentucky young woman. She is gentle and nurturing in her demeanor. She has a great talent for storytelling. MAMA: A Black Kentucky woman in her late thirties. She is visibly with child. She has spent her entire life in the country. She is a talented cook, quilter, and homemaker. BOY #5: A twenty–three–year–old Black Kentucky young man. He has spent his entire life working the land and is exceptional in the fields. He has a roguish demeanor. He is a twin. Scene Various locations on a family tobacco farm in rural Kentucky Time Late August 1967 SCENE 1 SETTING: We are in a shabby, bare country home. The home takes up a very small amount of space. It has only one room, with a rocking chair, a bed, a table for the kitchen and the rest is field. A t RISE: It is nighttime, and GIRL #7 and GIRL #9 are curled in a bed together, giggling. MAMA has fallen asleep in the rocking chair. An older boy sleeps on the floor. It is well past bedtime. The room is small and swells with the excitement from the girls. GIRL #7 is reading GIRL #9 a story from a personal notebook. GIRL #7 (whispering) In the beginning was the Word GIRL #9 And the word was loud GIRL #7: (GIRL #7 shushes and giggles) With a long A…. GIRL #9: Two legs, two arms and a small head GIRL #7: Some high and low points GIRL #9: Low like valleys and high like mountains! BOY #5: (grumbles) GIRL #9: Shhh GIRL #7: (whispering) Long as the Ohio river (she moves to the hallway) GIRL #9: (following) Moving like curvy mountains on a page GIRL #7 With 2 F’s GIRL #9: And 5 A’s GIRL #7: (counting) 5 A’s? GIRL #9: (re-counts) 3 A’s GIRL #7: And the word stuttered GIRL #9: Af-f-f-- GIRL #7: And struggled GIRL #9: Af-f-f r-il -Affril - ach GIRL #7: And stumbled GIRL #9: A-f-r-r-i-l-a-c-h-i-a-? BOY #5: (grumbles, Dreaming) No GIRL #7: And finally stuck GIRL #9: Affrilachia GIRL #7: And the word was GIRL #9: Affrilachia! GIRL #7: And the Word was! GIRL #7 and GRIL #9: Affrila- (They both Scream) MAMA: (off) Girls! (Enter MAMA, in a worn night gown and slippers.) MAMA: (reprimanding) Girls! Now you know you are supposed to be in bed. GIRL#9: It was a snake mama! MAMA: Snake? GIRL #7: Yes ma’am, there on the floor and it’s humongous! MAMA: A humongous snake on the floor? If that isn’t the… (she sees the snake) Oh my… Clyde! (TRANSITION OF TIME) (Later that day in the tobacco fields at sunset. A Tractor is heard. The girls are coming in from the field) (GIRL #7 GIRL #9 enter visibly exhausted) GIRL #9: My eyes burn. GIRL #7: (fixing her hair) It’s alright, here use this, it’ll get better in a week. GIRL #9: A week! I hate the fields. I hate them. I hate them! GIRL #7: Remember the story? (pulling the notebook from her pants.) -Long as the Ohio river (grabbing GIRL #9 in a dance) GIRL #9: Moving like curvy mountains on a page GIRL #7: With 2 F’s GIRL #9: 3 A’s GIRL #7 and GIRL #9: Affrilachia! (They both laugh and stumble to the ground overwhelmed with good feelings.) GIRL #7: Here, come listen. (She reads to her in a big sister performance kind of way.) I call it ‘raised by women … (GIRL #9 looks unimpressed. GIRL #7 puts down her book.) Let’s play a game. I’ll start by saying “I was raised by,” and you finish it. Ready? I was raised by Some high yellow, red bone, red-haired Green eyed Cherokee knowing- (prompting GIRL #9) GIRL #9: cherry eating, tobacco cutting Will rush you off the phone in a heart-beat kind of women GIRL #7: (laughing) Mmmhmm! I was raised by … Some macaroni and cheese making Polk picking GIRL #9: Pimple popping GIRL #7: Bible reading GIRL #9: Church going GIRL #7: (laughs and sings) Choir singing GIRL #9: Ushers .. AND Sunday school teaching GIRL #7: Sister of the preacher seating -“isn’t it funny that they don’t believe in women in the pulpit- (GIRL #9 delights at the truths in her statements) Kind of sisters I was raised by women. (GIRL #7 and GIRL #9 delight together in their story) (beat) GIRL #9: You got your stories, but me I don’t have talents like that. GIRL #7: Sure, you do GIRL #9: Nuh uh- none that I know of. GIRL #7: Have you ever tried writing? GIRL #9: No, hate it. GIRL #7: What don’t you hate? GIRL #9: I dunno, dunno what to write GIRL #7: All you have to do is imagine. GIRL #9: Imagine what? GIRL #7: Anything. Close your eyes. Close them. Now what do you see? GIRL #9: black GIRL #7: not literally… GIRL #9: …..I see… I see….A woman… from the city. GIRL #7: A what? GIRL #9: A city woman. She’s tall, bigger than daddy, and has hair and her skin- like mine. GIRL #7: And what does this fine city woman do? GIRL #9: -Did I say she was big, way bigger than #5 and athletic, and smart. She never misses school and never even seen tobacco-only mountains. GIRL #7: Mountains? GIRL#9: City-woman was born on a mountain top. OH AND She saves people. GIRL #7: Is that right GIRL #9: Mmhmm and she’s a snake killer, she travels the world killing snakes -and she’s comin’ GIRL #7: Comin’ where? GIRL #9: Comin’ here. GIRL #7: Here? GIRL #9: Yep, she’s on her way right now. She’s coming to save me from these fields. GIRL #7: Oh just you! What about me? You gonna leave me here? GIRL #9: (she opens one eye) I’ll ask her to bring you too. GIRL #7: Oh good, just make sure my hair is done first. (Beat) I think you might just have a talent. You’ll be alright. GIRL #9: You sure? MAMA: (off) Sev come in here GIRL #7: I’ll be right back. (She places her notebook down on the ground) (The stage is left empty with GIRL #9. She picks up GIRL #7’s notebook and pen from the ground and begins to write.) GIRL #9: Dear City-woman, (pause) I was raised…… I was raised….. I was raised working in tobacco. I was raised working on 80 acres of farmland in a family of 11. And we work. All 1- 11 of us. We raise chickens, pigs, cattle to sell, milking cows- in tobacco, corn and wheat fields. (She thinks) When it tobacco cutting season- girls not treated like girls in the country. Is it like that where you’re from? A body is just a body— #5: (#5 enters from behind her) What you writing girl? GIRL #9: Nothing. #5: Don’t look like nothing. ( he takes the notebook ) What you doing with Sev’s notebook?- You stole it! I’m going to tell her you stole it. GIRL #9: I didn’t, she let me see it! #5: Did she really? No, she didn’t- I can tell you lying. I’m going to tell her. GIRL #9: I didn’t! #5: What reason I got to believe you? GIRL #9: -please! #5: You don’t want me to tell her? GIRL #9: (GIRL #9 shakes her head no.) #5: What you going to do? What you going to do to make me believe you? GIRL #9: (pause)(She looks around for an answer) --- #5: (laughing) You gonna give me a kiss ain’t you – you gonna give me a kiss right here- (He holds his finger on his cheek.) —then I’ll believe you. (GIRL #9 reluctantly kisses him quickly) (#5 gives the book back to her by pressing the book to her breast. The book slides to the ground as his hand stays pressed. GIRL #9 snatches the book from the ground.) Well then, I guess I believe you. (GIRL #9 nods.) (He exits.) (GIRL #9 watches him leave, anxiously picks up the notebook and opens the notebook back to her page) GIRL #9: Sometimes… (she thinks about telling) Sometimes…(looking at the tobacco around her) Sometimes… #4-9 go working on our neighbor’s farm- picking the ground leaves for tobacco. See with tobacco, the lower leaves ripen and have to be harvested first. I usually do alright. I can stay low to the ground— GIRL #7: What you writing? (GIRL #9 screams) Girl you screaming like you just saw a snake! GIRL #9: I didn’t take it, you left it and I just started looking through it, and writing like you said, but I didn’t take it - swear. GIRL #7: You’re all right, here, you can have it. To distract yourself from the work. GIRL #9: Sev, You sure? GIRL #7: Sure. MAMA: (Hollering, as if she is about to go into labor) Sev— come heh- I need you. (GIRL #7 exits. GIRL #9 works then distracts herself. At first she thinks aloud. GIRL #9 is in the thick of the field. Exhausted from work, she finds a spot, pulls out her notebook from her pants and begins to write.) GIRL #9: You gotta get the ground leaves before they turn brown otherwise that’s money that you loose -that’s what daddy say. So I get low to the ground, and I done invented this technique where I can use my fingers and my teeth. And I hum a song while I’m doing it, so it feels like a game. So I hum and pick, and hum and pick and hum and pick. And I was doing alright til- #5 GIRL shouldn’t be dreaming in the tobacco fields. (He snatches the book.) GIRL #9: I’m not sleeping. #5: Don’t look like that way. I’m going to tell daddy you was sleeping in the fields. GIRL #9: No, I wasn’t #5: (taunting) You was just lying down. (She shushes him.) (He mocks her shushing) You don’t want me to tell him? GIRL #9: (she shakes her head no pleading for the book back.) (GIRL #9 and #5 FREEZE) GIRL #9: GIRL ain’t safe anywhere in the country, ‘specially not in no tobacco field,’ #5 come up on me. And afterward, I was still. I lay out in the tobacco field next to the ground leaves pricking my back and in my hair. I laid there while my mind left my body. I laid there with my hands outreached hoping someone would be there to help me. (Whispering) It doesn’t sound as painful as it is. Hoping someone would place their hand in mine and pull me close. I closed my eyes, thinking on city-woman. She’s coming to rescue me from the tobacco fields. I see my city-woman- all black on, leather gloves, that briefcase and sunglasses. My city woman never goes to the field ‘cept this time when she’s come here to save me. I reach my hand out to my city-woman who is coming to surprise me with flowers in hand. I can hear her talking love to me. Her voice is deep like water wells. I lay there, tears hard on my face and I can feel city-woman’s presence blowing them dry. And she’s humming my song and drying my tears/I even feel heat next to my hand and I know it’s city-woman’s glove. I’ve never felt leather before but I feel it now as the heat from her hand slides in mine. I open my eyes to see city-woman. Instead- #5: You gonna give me a kiss to make sure I don’t tell. Ain’t you? (She goes for his cheek.) Naw Right here – (He kisses her long, too long on the lips. Then drops her book.) Well then, I guess I won’t be telling this time. (#5 exits.) (GIRL #9’s screams) GIRL #7: (runs to her) What is it!? GIRL #9: I seen a Black copper head! it slid in place of city woman’s hand. GIRL #7: What? GIRL #9: When I realized it wasn’t city-woman I jumped, and me and the snake both fly into the air. GIRL #7: You dreaming Nine.. when I said find a distraction I didn’t mean go to sleep. Daddy’s gonna get you. GIRL #9: It’s true! and While I’m flying, I turn my head and see daddy and #5 standing side by side at the end of the field. Both me and the snake hit the ground. And I hear daddy laughing at me. In between laughs he’s scolding me for laying down on the job. He laughed and I laid there. Said he didn’t know who was higher.. me or the snake. #5 was laughing so hard he had to hold his stomach. And I was there, lying in a field of tobacco. GIRL #7: You gotta be smarter next time. (GIRL #7 exits) GIRL #9: Like I said - Nothing good happen in the field. ‘Cept sweat and tears.(beat)I ain’t staying here. I ‘m leaving soon as my city woman come. And when she do -I ain’t coming back…. (She sits, opens the book and continues to write. GIRL #7 is hidden in her own corner of the field revising.) GIRL #7 In the beginning was the word GIRL #9 I was raised by … GIRL #7 Long A GIRL #9 Some multitasking Independent thinking Cooking and Cleaning Feeding the whole family and then some because “You don’t take things for granted’ Kind of women GIRL #7 (said like a curse word) Two F’s GIRL #9 Some snake fighting Field surviving Tobacco pulling Achieve every dream because “You’ll be alright” Kind of women GIRL#7 Three A’s GIRL #9 Some – GIRL #7 AND GIRL #9 Heart county, Country living GIRL#7 And the word stuttered GIRL #9 City Moving GIRL #7 And struggled GIRL #9 Memory of an elephant I’m going write a Story GIRL#7 And stumble GIRL #9 Call you a snake And tell all the family business kind of women GIRL#7 And finally stuck. GIRL #9 I was raised by women. GIRL #7 Affrilachia. (MAMA looks into the fields from the kitchen of her home, with a new baby girl in hand. MAMA, GIRL #7 and GIRL #9 are standing on three sides still and silent.) (Blackout) (END OF PLAY) ### 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.

Torch Literary Arts is excited to launch our Bookshop affiliate page where you can find books by past and current TORCH features. Your purchase supports these incredible authors, independent bookstores, and Torch Literary Arts. When choosing a bookstore on Bookshop, please support our friends at Bookwoman and Black Pearl Books. Happy reading. Onward together! Shop Today: bookshop.org/shop/torchliteraryarts 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. TORCH has featured work by Colleen J. McElroy, 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.

Lynne Thompson is the award-winning author of four collections of poetry and was the 4th Poet Laureate of Los Angeles. Lynne Thompson served as Los Angeles’ 4th Poet Laureate and received a Poet Laureate Fellowship from the Academy of American Poets. She is the author of four collections of poetry, Beg No Pardon (2007), winner of the Perugia Press Prize and the Great Lakes Colleges Association’s New Writers Award; Start With A Small Guitar (What Books Press, 2015) ;   Fretwork , winner of the 2019 Marsh Hawk Poetry Prize selected by Jane Hirshfield; and,, Blue on a Blue Palette ,   published by BOA Editions in April 2024. A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, Thompson is the recipient of multiple awards including the George Drury Smith Award for Outstanding Achievement in Poetry, an Individual Artist Fellowship from the City of Los Angeles, the Tucson Literary Festival Poetry Prize, and the Steven Dunn Poetry Prize, as well as fellowships from the Summer Literary Series (Kenya) and the Vermont Studio Center. She serves on the Boards of the Poetry Foundation, Cave Canem, and The Los Angeles Review of Books. Thompson’s recent work can be found or is forthcoming in the literary journals Best American Poetry 2020, Kenyon Review, The Massachusetts Review, Copper Nickel , and Gulf Coast, as well as the anthology Dear Yusef: Essays, Letters, and Poems For and About One Mr. Komunyakaa , among others.   Thompson’s website can be found at  www.lynnethompson.us . Like Choosing Which One To Be Forever Changed Into   The dragonflies are only the first thing.   There are places, still, that no moonlight ever conquers  and there’s a meadow I can’t stop coming back to.   There’s a slant of light I used to call Self Portrait having been lost unfindably   where your dragonflies are only the first thing.    It’s easy to confuse estrangement with what came before.  When did our yard get this swollen?   What happened to the meadow I can’t stop coming back to?   My heart is not so much broken as beating.   Maybe stamina’s just a fairer form of stubborn  and dragonflies are forever the first, the only thing.   It is our shadowed tenderness I break inside of,  a forest that stands at the exact center of sorrow  alongside a meadow I can’t stop coming back to.   Then again, everything is findable, even now.  See how sky becomes an echo of what’s flown through it?  There are dragonflies which are only the first thing  and also, the meadow. I can’t stop coming back.  In this version (a wishlist),   a mother, compelled or complicit,   decides to keep her child,   decides to disobey, to resist,   decides blood is thicker than blood.   The mother, in this version,   is wiser than she has been told:   she remembers the consummation     and smiles; she remembers   the conception as if she can   pinpoint its ultimate insignificance.   In this romance, her child smells   of rosemary and piss on sheets,   has eyes the color of no god’s pupils,    has DNA flecked with wily witticisms.  In this un-tragic, the father is peripheral.  Whoever’s opinion matters less than.   Her child won’t fall to ground in either  version, doesn’t wonder or wander clad  in barkcloth, and this is the child who   plays well with ridicule and farce, every  synonym being more than another  illusion, another product of thievery   which raises those thorny questions of  reparations, amends, recompense; see  the Late Latin reparare : to restore but   who restores the mother who declines to  resist, to disobey, to keep her child—she  who is the essence, the lasting version of—?  In this life, this eight to the bar,   I am single-voiced,   generous— despite   this bubble burst of life’s techno-madness,   the density of its point-and-penciled vanishing.  I wish I could hear Coltrane live —   not looking down,   inside every step,  between,   while I languish here—   corner of Pacific O,   unable to be anywhere else,   my gun wiped clean   almost—  Highway 61 Blues     —you begin with a sound wrapped around a syllable—   Quincy Troupe   Wocha take me Bobby J? Woncha take me  up the trail outta New Orleans, past Natchez  past Vicksburg, all the way to Rollin’ Fork?  You and me gonna beat the boll weevil,   gonna beat the bent back heat all the way  to Duncan, all the way to New Africa been  on my mind. I’m lookin’ for a blue devil,   a blue devil to set me free from floodplains,    from Yazoo, from Tallahatchie, fly free me  all the way to Greenville, Tutwiler, all teh way  to Clarksdale where my gutar just gotta moan  Preachin’ Blue all the way, all the way, all the way    and I’m hollerin’ loud I been `buked and scorned  Willie Brown; I been beat down Howlin’ Wolf;  hey Kid Bailey, got any scratch? Can you get me  to Shelby where blues ain’t dead? So said some   pretty one-eyed gal who gav eme two six stringers  and a hard drum, said pace yourself, pace yourself  and yeah, Mr. Jimmie Cotton soothe me sure with  some sweet, sweet devil music to keep me movin’    outta sullen heat and deep blue and   Jim Crow and sharecrop—no mo’ dry throat,  no mo’ hot whipe, no manny sold to don’t know  where, no white man’s cotton but no forty acres   and no goddamned mule, yeah, so take me, Bobby J,  all the way to Memphis, out west to Houston  up east to Cincinnati, up north to Chi-town, away  from the woncha, please Stop Breakin’ Down Blues.  The Day My Brothers Met Malcom X,   they knew our Antilles-bred parents were  wary of black Muslims: mother gave hijabs  a cold one-eye when she saw them troublin’    the innocents on our streets. However, our  folks did enjoy the bean pies those bow-ties  sold outside a branch of the Bank of America    but not quite as much as the brothers enjoyed  meeting Minister Malcolm in the barbershop  of the Hotel Watkins, perched majestically,    Adams Boulevard, Sugar Hill. The brothers  gave up chairs of favored barberettes—Angie?  Gloria?—and the rhythm of old men’s playing   of the dozens in answer to Mr. X’s proposition:  I don’t want to look like I need a haircut but also  not like I just had one. It was May, 1962, when   X came to L.A. to protest the policeman whose  bullet pierced the heart of Ronald Stokes, X’s  friend, a Muslim, a Korean War vet. His crime:   unloading several dry-cleaned suits from a car  parked—legally—near Mosque 27. Malcolm  strode into the Watkins the same day he   preached nobody can give you freedom…if you  are a man, you take it and everybody knew  Malcolm was The Man. Many gotta-get  my-afro-oiled-and-shaped were intimidated  by this Muslim who would grace a 1964 cover  of Jet magazine alongside Cassius Clay,   meaning that two years after X came, life  hadn’t changed here much; meaning most  Afro-Ams—excuse me, Kneegroes—sang  a blues chorus—emboldened, yes, yet fearful—  for this preacher. And my brothers revealed  more about themselves than Malcolm because   they weren’t sure what they were allowed  to ask him. But maybe their untapped rage  rose up, making one brother a sk what should    we believe, man making Malcolm mourn: we are  a violent people . When the brothers spoke of it  years later, I understood Malcolm never fully   answered before he took a bullet, 1965, so  the question hangs in the stank air that blew  over Stephon Clark—what should we believe? THE INTERVIEW This interview was conducted between Lynne Thompson and Jae Nichelle on August 8, 2024. You mentioned that “Like Choosing Which One to be Forever Changed Into” is a cento inspired by Carl Phillips. And it is so lovely in its cascading repetition of the starting lines, including how you made use of Phillips’ line about the meadow from his poem “Falling.” Can you share a bit about what drew you to breathe different life into these lines?  I am a big fan of the cento and I’m also constantly looking for opportunities to pay homage to the poets who have inspired me with their work and their friendship. Carl Phillips is one of those people. His oeuvre is amazing and I’ve been re-reading his work and, as a result, I found opportunities to say “thank you” for what he’s gifted to those of us who love his poems. In addition to the poem “Falling”, “Like Choosing….” incorporates lines from the following Phillips’ collections: Double Shadow; Riding Westward; Then the War, Reconnaissance; The Tether; Speak Low; and Silverchest. The poems you’ve shared have a variety of perspectives and voices. I’m wondering where you view yourself in relation to the words on the page. As a poet, do you feel like you are an observer, a reporter, an inquirer, or a professor? All or none of the above?   I’m often all of the above all at once. In “In this version (a wishlist), a mother, compelled or complicit,”, for example, I am an observer but I am also the child who is referenced. I’m always looking for ways to mix up the perspectives that must, necessarily though not always happily, co-exist. In an issue of Moria , you suggested that poets read outside of the box—Aka, read more than poetry, but “read recipes, NASA reports, old maps, bills of lading, to name a few.” What’s something “outside of the box” you’ve read recently that has inspired you? Like so many people, I’m fascinated by the plight of animals in an environment where species are constantly at risk of extinction. I came across an article by journalist Tim Brinkhof about the wild zebras purchased by William Randolph Hearst—who provided the titular model for the movie Citizen Kane —to roam his estate, Hearst Castle, in California. I was fascinated to discover—though I shouldn’t have been surprised—that someone would “import” a species of animal native to Africa to his home as his playmates! I’m working on a new piece that explores this hubris. You transitioned from a career as a law litigator to a path that allowed you to prioritize creative writing. Before that happened, did you find that your love of poetry and creativity informed the way you practiced law?   Early in my legal career, a judge praised my poetic language in a brief I submitted. He then promptly denied the relief I was seeking! That taught me to keep the two paths separate! As a person born and raised in Los Angeles who became a Los Angeles poet laureate, is there anything you feel outsiders would be surprised to learn about the city? I’ve heard visitors and transplants to the City complain that its citizens can be unfriendly. While the geography of the City—and thus the opportunity to find true community—can be difficult to navigate and that difficulty may contribute to negative perceptions, I think, given the chance, Angelenos can be quite friendly and ready and willing to welcome those who are new to the City.  What’s a topic you feel like you could give a TED talk about with little to no preparation? Transitioning from the practical career of a lawyer (or similar profession) to the (some would say) impractical career of a writer (or similar creative endeavor). What’s the kindest thing someone has ever done for you? The kindest act has nothing to do with poetry. It was the decision of my immigrant parents, who already have four sons, to adopt me. I often think of who I might have become if they had not made that decision. It was life-altering and I’m forever grateful. How can people support you right now? Here’s a shameless self-promotion: buy my new collection, Blue on a Blue Palette , preferably from your local independent bookstore or from www.bookshop.org  or from Amazon. Name another Black woman writer people should follow. Tough to choose just one but I’m going to shout out California poet, Nikia Chaney ( https://www.nikiachaney.com/ ) who is not only a wonderful poet but a publisher as well. She’s doing the hard, important work. Check her out!! ### 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.

Photo credit : Aishvarya Arora  Esther Kondo Heller is a poet, literary critic, and experimental sound and filmmaker. They are a Barbican Young Poet, an Obsidian Foundation Fellow, a Ledbury Critic, and an Image Text Ithaca Junior Fellow. They have an MFA in creative writing from Cornell University. They are currently a PhD candidate in Comparative Literature at Harvard University, where they are working on transnational Black poetics. Heller's writing has appeared in the Georgia Review , BOMB , Modern Poetry in Translation , the Guardian amongst other places, their debut poetry collection, Ar:range:ments is forthcoming with Fonograf Editions in March 2025 . DANCING Tonight I want to go dancing in the streets. The votes are in and dancing is all that’s left.  I want to shake ass. Titties free in a sheer blue  dress like Chloe in 1974. Ecstatic, fist pounding  the air full of beat. I will be dancing for no one,  for no party, apart for movement. I will be twirling revolutions. Tonight, I am gasping in my bed my  beating heart sweats my bones out. I dreamt  myself dancing in silence, I dreamt my body  shaking at the top of my lungs. My sound cast in the street. Cast in a casket. Cast in a class room. Electric slide with all present and past I wake up, my mouth knows the steps, tells me  we will dance tonight. We will. We will. We must.   ### 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.

Adriene Cruz is a textile artist based in Portland, Oregon who has exhibited work locally and internationally. Photographer: Romney Mueller- Westernhagen Harlem native Adriene Cruz creates brilliantly colored fabric art embellished in rhythmic improvisational arrangements of cultural beauty. Her creative vision has garnered invitations to create beyond fabric to public art in Portland allowing her imagery to flow from textile creations to concrete fabrications. Adriene has exhibited her textiles internationally in Brazil, Costa Rica, and South Africa and Nationally at the Smithsonian, The Folk Art Museum, NY, American Craft Museum, NY, The Museum of the African Diaspora, San Francisco, The National Civil Rights Museum, Memphis, and the Fowler Museum of Cultural History, UCLA, to name a few. She’s included in collections at the Schomberg Center for Research in Black Culture in Harlem, Haborview Medical Center, Seattle, Portland Community College, Reed College, and numerous private collections. Learn more @thedreamerswindow and www.adrienecruz.com . Power Prayer for the Community , 2024, textiles; mixed media; beads; shells; dried lemongrass sachets preparing work for exhibit at The Guardino Gallery in Portland, 2015 Threaded Rituals Daydreaming Again , 2023. The Interview This interview was conducted between Jae Nichelle and Adriene Cruz on October 21, 2024. Thank you so much for sharing photos of your process! I’d love to learn more about “Threaded Rituals.” How did these pieces/ installation come to be? Thank you so much for your interest in my work! “Threaded Rituals” is very much about appreciating the journey or channeling the flow of energy and spirit that happens with the push and pull of needle and thread. It was created summer of 2021 outdoors in my yard as I was feeling connected to many generations of stitchers. I was inspired to begin by the remnant of an appliquéd piece from India I found at a studio sale.    You studied art in high school and college, so it seems like you developed an interest in an art career at an early age. If you could give your teenage self inside knowledge about your future career, what would you say? I did have an early interest in making things but a career never entered my mind. What I’m doing now is completely different from what I was doing in high school which was stone and wood sculpture and college was still three-dimensional work. Honestly, I never thought of it as an art career, creating has always been about being in a safe place to be and feel free. What I would tell my teenage self? Probably to enjoy life and have some fun! Be comfortable in my skin! I was painfully shy and missed out a lot on just living.    The way you sew objects into your quilts is incredible. What types of objects are resonating with you at present?   I love collecting textile remnants, beads, and talismans that have a tribal feel especially if it’s mirrored or embroidered. I also love using cowrie shells and sequins. In the piece I created honoring my mother, I used her rings and other bits of her life like the tiny silver key to the 66th-floor ladies' room of One World Trade Center.  You've completed various public art installations around the city of Portland! Which has been the most memorable experience? The one I couldn’t imagine myself doing, the interstate Max Lightrail station! My first and second response to the project was NO! It took more than a minute to wrap my head around how I could apply my textile designs to a hardscape environment. Thankfully I was guided by a veteran public artist Valerie Otani who suggested applying my ideas to concrete, steel, glass, and bronze. Once the materials were chosen I was free to design as I wished. It was definitely a learning curve!   What are your favorite places in Portland to spend your time?  I’m very much a homebody so my favorite place in Portland is home! If we broaden it, my favorite place to spend time in Oregon is the ocean! Broaden it further and my favorite place to spend time is Cuba!   I'm curious to know what your workspace is like. Do you create from home or in a studio?  My studio is up in the attic of where I live and in the warmer months I set up in the backyard, nothing beats natural light.   What's uplifting you these days? I’m blessed with beautiful circles of creative women. Some are very much younger than me and the others are my peers. The energy shared with them is always uplifting. Also my doggie Bindi! She’s a three-year-old rescue I’ve had for a year, my anti-depressant after losing my Mom in 2022.  Do you have a specific process for titling your pieces, or do the titles just come to you?  Sometimes it’s from a phrase or poem I’ve heard that gives me a feeling I want to see. Sometimes I’m creating and the piece tells me its name. I wish I could remember the name I originally had for “Threaded Rituals," it slips my memory now. While creating I was feeling good, totally immersed in the process when it let me know the name I was working with was not its name. I’m like, what? “That’s not my name!" Several nights I spent dreaming what the name could possibly be. Ritual came up first and then after a few days of threading needles, fabric, beads, shells, sequins, and whatever it became so obvious “Threaded Rituals!”  Of course! From then on the piece really flowed.   How can people support you right now?  Oh wow! That’s a big question! Lots of love and encouragement! Help me get my book going, places to get away, beach house, or whatever! Money is always helpful, too! Ha ha, I can dream!  Name another Black woman artist people should know. Easily my mentor of 30 years, Valerie J Maynard who also left us in 2022 at 85. She was amazingly prolific and encouraged many creatives to challenge self-imposed boundaries. Another stellar, prolific artist among the living is Xenobia Bailey. A beautiful soul conjuring soulful creations. ### 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.

Jacquese Armstrong (she/her) is a writer/speaker/poet who educates, motivates, and inspires from her lived mental health experiences and interprets the pain etched on her mothers’ wombs provided for her reading as a balm for healing to aid in battling the illusion. A 2022 Black Fire—This Time Anthology Summer Fellow with Aquarius Press, author of birthing yourself naturally: motivational reflections on a mental health journey (2022), and blues legacy (Broadside Lotus Press, 2019), Jacquese was the recipient of the 2019 Naomi Long Madgett Poetry Award and a 2015 Ambassador Award from the State of New Jersey Governor’s Council on Mental Health Stigma for promoting wellness and recovery and reducing stigma through the arts. In addition, she creates mental wellness/self-care workshops from an artistic lens and has received training from the Arts & Healing Initiative as a SEA (Social Emotional Arts) Facilitator. Follow her on her website. stuck in jackson ms tryin to understand (2023) (with the help of basquiat) i hear jean-michel “jim crow” and all he said was ms with a blue-black river mississippi invadin a black man’s head makin his eyes fire/ yeah makin his eyes fire i feel this force-field here people yell over it they laugh loud they stare you down in righteous indignation for breathin their air i feel this force-field here said it was a stronghold ‘cause i thought to myself satan’s been busy here like for centuries buildin that chasm buildin that chasm buildin that chasm that orchestrates the indignities forced into a predicated mind like a bullet interrupts regulary scheduled dna but i just feel this force-field here it settles somewhere about the neck ### 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.

The Pushcart Prize: Best of the Small Presses series, published every year since 1976, is considered one of the most important publishing projects in American history (Publishers Weekly). Learn more about the prize here. We are thrilled to announce the following Torch nominees: POEMS “after my Bipolar Diagnosis I make several phone calls & everyone says that makes sense” by Kailah Figueroa “To the Girl Who Swears to Love in Line” by Fatihah Quadri Eniola “miracle” by Damilola Omotoyinbo “Am I Beautiful?” by Arianne Elena Payne FICTION “hollow-holo-abdi” by Whitney French "Habanero Peppers" by Venus Alemanji ### 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.

Born on a Friday in December, Fatihah Quadri Eniola is a young Nigerian poet whose work has been featured in The West Trade Review, The Shore Poetry, Agbowo, Brittle Paper, Isele Magazine and elsewhere. She is a nyctophobic gathering experience in Law in the premier University of Ibadan. Follow Fatihah on Instagram. To The Girl Who Swears To Love In Line We have the same skin. Your hair, the color of dormant marigolds. Warsan said our things do not belong to us. Even my names, I left them at the sound of a gun. We spend evening watching the birds deny the sky and this is how we know the sorrow of trees is the desertion of leaves. We spend Eid measuring our breast. You spend Eid telling me of men who asked you out before 18, but Warsan said our men do not belong to us and when I told you to teach me a poem, you brought out a blade instead of a pen. ### 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.

Cindy Elizabeth is a portrait and documentary photographer from Austin, TX with a client list that includes Vogue, Bloomberg, Google, and more. Cindy Elizabeth is a freelance portrait and documentary photographer based in Atlanta, GA. Her work explores concepts of culture, history, and symbolism in everyday life. Elizabeth’s work has been exhibited in Los Angeles at SEASONS LA Gallery, and in Austin at The Elisabet Ney Museum, The Art Galleries at Austin Community College, Martha’s Contemporary Gallery, The George Washington Carver Museum, ICOSA Gallery, and the University of Texas at Austin. Client List: Vogue, Bloomberg, Google, The New York Times, The Guardian, Washington Post, The Wall Street Journal, Texas Tribune, GQ Magazine, Equal Justice Initiative. Follow Cindy online at CindyElizabeth.com. Friends pose for a photo in Austin, TX. April 2017. A couple poses with their dog in Austin, TX. March 2021. Givens Park, February, 2023. Revive the Culture Marching Band perform at the Juneteenth Parade in East Austin, TX on Saturday, June 18th, 2022. Kind Clinic Presents: Freaknik '22. Austin, TX 2022. A slab rider poses with his children in Houston, TX. June 2023. SLAB riders hand out candy in the Juneteenth Parade in East Austin, TX on Saturday, June 18th, 2022. Ray Ray Topaz gets ready for a performance backstage at Swan Dive in Austin, TX on Tuesday, May 30th, 2023. Kamesha Brooks and horse Sophia at Roll N Da Dice Stables in Austin, TX. May 2021. "Juneteenth Cowboy" Dennis Milligan stops for a moment during the annual Juneteenth parade in Austin, TX. June 2021. The Interview This interview was conducted between Jae Nichelle and Cindy Elizabeth in November 2023. First of all, wow. Your work is simply stunning. I feel immediately transported to the room or on the street right along with your subjects. What draws you to documentary photography—capturing real people and real events? Thank you so much for this sweet compliment! What I love the most about documentary photography is the ability to tell stories. Storytelling is a very interesting and impactful form of art and one that I enjoy very much. One of the first ways I remember being actively engaged with art was through storytelling. My mother would read stories to me and share stories about her childhood as a sharecropper in Texas. There are so many stories I have forgotten over the years and I regret not being able to document them before my mother’s death. I believe this is what continues to move me to document the stories of people who I share parts of my identity with. There are a lot of interesting stories to be told that often get overlooked and that inspires me to do that work. These photos are so distinctly Texas and Southern. There are images from a Juneteenth parade, from Freaknik, and specifically of movers and shakers from Central Texas. What are your thoughts on the state of Southern representation in media and art right now? The South has always been a place of change-making and cultural production and influence. As Black southern folks, we are not always given our just do or credited with our creations once they’ve become co-opted by mainstream society. As Andre 3000 said, “The South got somethin’ to say” but are we listening? Can you talk a little bit about your process for selecting which photos feel right to you for a given project? The process can look different for each project but, generally, I like to look for the images that convey the most emotion or information about who a person is. The goal is connection so I select images with that in mind. In the end, what I’m hoping for the viewer is that they connect with the people in the images. In a profile for Sightlines Magazine in 2020, you mention black and white being your preferred color palette. These recent images are incredibly vibrant with color. Has this changed for you? What is your relationship with color these days? Early on, I really came to rely on black-and-white images as a way to isolate the elements that I wanted the viewer to focus on. When documenting people in public spaces, there would often be a lot going on in the background and I felt that just having the tones present in the image helped to block out distractions. I also just really love the look of black and white photography and employing it as a way to give a nod to some of my favorite photographers like Roy DeCarava and Gordon Parks. As time went on, I started employing color in my photographs because I felt like black and white was doing an injustice to some of the communities I was documenting. Color is such an important part of the fabric of the South. In Texas, we are very colorful. Color is part of the way that we choose to step out into the world and represent ourselves, our fashions, our hair, our nails, our cars, etc. It plays a vital role in how we move through the world and choose to represent ourselves. So it’s important that that is reflected in the work and in the representation of Black people in the South. You’ve been part of many amazing exhibitions and have shot for companies like Vogue, Bloomberg, and Google. Are there any specific hopes and dreams you have for your work in the future? What are they? I hope to continue exhibiting work, continue expanding my practice, and exploring new realms of art making, and my number one hope is to publish a photo book. You recently moved from Austin to Atlanta! Have you discovered any favorite spots in Atlanta so far? I haven’t had much time to really explore the city and surrounding areas. My first priority has been to find my new favorite restaurants, bookstores, and my go-to movie theater and comic book store. I’m still exploring and hoping to narrow down my list soon. I had the opportunity to see Janelle Monae perform at the Fox Theater and it was a breathtaking venue. I hope to have a reason to go back soon. What are you doing when you’re not working on photography? I love my Nintendo Switch and I love my cozy games. I also spend a lot of time reading and watching Star Trek with my wife. 8. What are three things you have to keep in your bag or on your person? Ooh, good question! Other than my wallet and phone: 1. Lotion 2. Lip Balm 3. Sunscreen How can people support you right now? People who want to support my work can follow me on Instagram at @cindyelizabethphoto or purchase prints on my website: cindyelizabeth.com. Name another Black woman artist people should follow. One of my many hometown favorites: Blakchy ### 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.

Venus Alemanji is a Cameroonian writer and software engineer currently based in Austin, Tx. She studied Computer Science and Creative Writing at Rice University. Multilingual in spoken word and code, she has always been fascinated by how computers, no matter how complex, ultimately speak in ones or zeros, binary, and humans, no matter how simple, often exist in contradictory, ambiguous states. She writes about queerness, lives whose very existence trouble binaries, the loop of love and grief, and renewal. Habanero Peppers is her first published story. You can connect with her on Instagram. Habanero Peppers As Antoine’s aunt informs him of his father’s death, his eyes water, tongue sags heavy, sweat pores spill from the thought of habanero peppers. If Antoine knew one thing about his father, it was his disdain for the peppers. He disliked heat in general. A hint of paprika created an awkward chew. Jalapenos, he barely touched. Habaneros and above? Whewww, war. When his mom cooked them, his father was nowhere to be found. This disappearance Antoine saw and applauded as an act of resistance. A resistance sweetened further because although the peppers spun his senses dizzy too, being a child, Antoine could not run away as freely as his father. After his aunt drops the call, Antoine sits on his bed naked, ashy, in need of heat. His aunt called shortly after he got out of the shower. Before him lies a floor-length mirror. He examines his face, his father’s really. Mama eh il resemble son pere, he was often told. The eyes and hands observing him were usually tender with wonder. A few times, though, he caught confusing hints of pity and sorrow in them. He’d later find out it was because he was an out-of-wedlock child, the result of an “unholy” union, as such a hollowed, dirtied thing to some Cameroonians. This wasn’t painful so much as astonishing. The hypocrisy of it all. How many of them were even married according to the laws of the Christian world, how many of them had children outside of those marriages, how many of these marriages were skeletons glorified by bored metal? Mama eh il resemble son pere, from the caterpillar brows, nosy eyes, generous lips, moonlit skin, to the swayed walk that suggested sin: him, his father. Even down to those confused toes, damn it. - Tears finally rain loose. Antoine leaps for that thing pain always makes us seek. Thinking about this childhood admiration for his father, he tries to joke, little me would kill writing my dad’s obituary. Listen, my dad was an anti-pepper activist, ok… His resistance taught me to draw boundaries early… Rest in- He stops abruptly. The variables of the joke—death, a little boy, albeit him, and his father—remind him he can’t run away from his pain. A galah flies onto the ledge of Antoine’s window stealing him away, gratefully, from the mirror. The bird used to belong to his neighbor till it escaped. Occasionally it reappears; the subject of many theories in that household. Antoine’s favorite is the explanation of the neighbor’s 12-year-old son—maybe he comes back to say hey I’m good, just checking in, hope there are no hard feelings. The bird has this beautiful rose-colored body, which after its departure, shifts Antoine’s mind to the floor where a skirt of the same color lies. He had planned to wear it today. Where the color is bold, the silhouette is simple, chic, a savvy advertiser might say. In this piece of thrifted cotton lies a portal to a person Antoine had been wanting to meet—the woman in him. Lord, his father would be turning in the morgue if he heard this. - When his father caught him at 15 with another boy’s tongue in his mouth, Antoine convulsed, begging the air to swallow him before his father’s wrath could. After flinging the boy down the stairs, he turned to his son, body shaking, voice steeled, are you the man or the woman? Wow, that question confused Antoine. His father repeated, are you the man or the woman, stepping closer. Man, he instinctively vomited what he thought the weapon before him wanted to hear. Oh my son, so that’s your source of pride? When my friends ask, I will say, ha at least my son doesn’t get fucked in the ass, he is the one fucking. That’s what you gift your father. You are no man. You are an abomination, not even worthy of my violence. This is how his father left him. Never did they exchange words again. - The fourth toe on each of Antoine’s feet climbs over the third, pushing it down, the way the absent father is said to suppress Black men like him. When memories like these suffocate him, he is grateful for the absence, though. For many years, the wish that his father would fly back and say hey how are you, just checking in, hope you’re good, like the rose-colored bird, according to the boy, stung him. As he grew, he came to conclude that his early feelings for the man was a mirage in an emotional desert. In truth, their shared hate of peppers was as close as they’d ever get. Even in the idealized version of his childhood, where he was no excuse for his father’s flight, the man still loved vanishing. This is why big Antoine can not write an obituary for his father. They shared enough time to share a face, not feelings. Silence, not prayer. Politeness, not love. It has been too long to hate his father either. He is stuck: there are no funeral manuals for ambivalence. - Though Antoine does not believe his parents dignify that stupid phrase “opposites attract,” his mother did love habanero peppers. When Antoine helped his mom in the kitchen, she would sway to her favorites—Ben Decca, Angelique Kidjo, Tracy Chapman, and memory, telling him stories about her mother’s famous pepper soup. It made the other children sweaatt, she emphasized, smiling. But I enjoyed it. I was always excited to go to the farm to pick the peppers with my mom. On cue, Antoine would crunch his face. She laughed, Tu es commes les autres enfants. It wasn’t so much the picking of peppers; I enjoyed it cause my mom would tell me many stories during our breaks and when we were finished she would always buy me something special. These peppers, joyous in the kitchen’s imagination, were weapons steps away on the dinner table. When Antoine’s father had crossed too many lines, his mother cooked them to draw hers. And like eucalyptus oil to mosquitoes or garlic to the vampires in her son’s cartoons, they repelled him from the house. - When, on his return home, Antoine sees his mother rubbing habanero peppers on his father’s lifeless clothes, he assumes, then, this bizarre act is one of revenge. He almost smiles because this woman, expected by her world to roll and somersault cause her husband is dead, has some right to seek her own pound of, if not flesh, cloth. Maybe he does too. She performs this new ritual seated on the floor of her bedroom with a dignified stoicism. Tired of watching her through the crevice of her bedroom window, he enters. She turns around startled, but importantly not startled the way a child caught in a bad act, acts. There is no worry in her eye, no lunge to cajole him into keeping some secret. I know you're worried, ‘Ntoine, she says. Your dad was evil. I didn’t love him. You’re a man now, I won’t lie to you. But I cared about him. These habanero peppers...Quand tu mange les habanero, tu recontre ce qui passe. Your eyes water, your tongue sizzles, mucus exits your nose. You release. You heal. Your father never ate these peppers because he didn’t want to release. Control was his only love. Anything that took it away, he ran away from. I don’t know where your father is now. Be it the Jewish man’s hell or our ancestors’ spirit land, he is suffering for his sins. In the absence of his body, we put these habanero peppers on his clothes so he may release. Release all the people whose destinies he ate. So that they too may release all the righteous hate they have for him. Release so that his spirit may someday heal. ### 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.