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Imani Nikelle is a southern-born, East Coast dwelling poet & filmmaker. Her poetry is published or forthcoming in Callaloo , The Columbia Review , Poet Lore , and elsewhere. She is currently earning an MFA in Literary Arts from Brown University. AMERICAN QUILT mailmen, porches the flag. sweet southern thistles of americana                              my ass. plains of sun-kissed nothing. soiled soil & the pickling. blessed hangs the fruit. this time  not a body. blackened leaves cut with sweet n’ low how to pattern it. master the returning. knees flaking on hot dust that carries  all the history of a given name singed in your throat. a light-eyed mister who drives past  your mother’s house to sniff at your skirt take this & eat. or tear it into  a perfect square.  easy living  wonders of this world: chicken-fried steak, two car garages, natural blondes,                             my ass. ### 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.

Leslie T. Grover is an award-winning writer, scholar, and activist. Her novella,  The Benefits of Eating White Folks, marked her entrance into historical fiction, following her work in academic and nonfiction writing. A southern Black writer, her short stories have appeared in Waxing and Waning Literary Journal , Testimony , and as the winning entry in Owl Hollow Press’ The Takeback Anthology . In 2024, she won Amazon Kindle Vella’s Grand Prize for her short story, “Little Girl.” She is managing editor for PushBlack, a media organization dedicated to uplifting Black history through storytelling. Leslie currently lives in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Pennies June 10, 1966 Dearest Deborah, Mama mad she had to bring me all the way home and wait for me to change my clothes. Daddy say she may as well go on and take me back now since it’s gone take a while for the men to get the bags ready. Then by the time we get back, we can do what we came to do and all go home. Miss Melba say Mama never should of trusted me to get dressed by myself anyway and out of all days, why she choose this  one to let me run wild and almost mess things up for everybody?  “I’m yo best friend,” she say to Mama right in front of me like I wadn’t even there, “and I’m gone always tell you the truth even when you don’t want to hear it. Truth is that girl ain’t right and you know she ain’t right. You got to watch her close.” She cut her eyes at me like I didn’t understand what she was saying. But I did understand, and I didn’t need no watching. When they said we was doing important business, I put on my going-to-town clothes, same as Mama and Daddy do when they go to the bank to handle important business.  I was glad when Mama, Daddy, and Miss Melba went on ahead of me. And sister, I did my best to do right. I did just like they do, everything I know to do. I did just like I do when Mama standing right there in case I forget. I even did like she say and put on my good draws. You how she always say, “Wear your good draws when you go out so in case something bad happen, the folks won’t be scared to touch you.”  Important business means we dress up. But when I got there they was wearing work clothes. Maybe they the ones ain’t right because they can’t make up they minds. Seems to me they should be mad at they own selves, saying business but look like work. When Mama get mad, she press her lips together, close her eyes, and breathe in. “Lord have mercy on yo child,” she say, clasping in her hands like she finna pray. Then come the tears, but she don’t let them stream down her face like she do when she catch the Holy Ghost. She wipe ‘em fast and stay quiet a long time.  You know how she do. It’s already enough crying round here, anyway, especially at church. All the women been wailing and fanning since the New Year and saying Lord Hammercy and don’t none of them have the Holy Ghost. It’s because seem like every month the white folks go crazy. They done hung somebody from a tree on the court square. Beat somebody in a ditch off the main road. Shot somebody over by the county park. Anything to try to scare us. It’s already five dead since January.  It’s the summer now, and Uncle Asa make number six. Mama been quiet, all full up with tears that don’t fall, ever since they found Uncle Asa all beat up and laid out in the ditch beside the big Welcome to Our Friendly Town sign.  That was two weeks ago.  “It’s too much,” she say to Miss Melba. “They didn’t have to do him like that. He ain’t do nothing but try to vote and we all  got the right to do that. It’s the law. And we citizens. Even President LBJ hisself signed the law that say they can’t do nothing to keep us from voting.” She press her lips together again. Now our whole family got to scrape together enough money to get the body from the county and get Uncle Asa buried. And I know Mama ain’t said nothing, but we got to pay an extra fee. The sheriff say Uncle Asa officially died on public property. He say it take public taxes to clean up the mess.  “Y’all Nigras don’t want to work for free,” he say, looking like he bout to bust out laughing, “So why should my deputies and the county workers?”  The longer we take to pay, the more we owe. Daddy say it just ain’t right to kill a man for exercising his rights. Say if Uncle Asa fought in the war against the Nazis, and it was just fine for him to get his knee blowed out, then why he can’t limp on that same knee to get his self to the voting booth?” Daddy balled up his fist and banged it on the dinner table. “The devil is a lie and that sheriff giving him work if he think we gone sit around, watch white folks hang us, chop us up, and then pay for them to clean up they mess,” he say. “My brother always stood for what was right. He never woulda stood for this monkeyshine.” But Daddy don’t press his lips and get quiet like Mama do when he mad.  His face turn red, and the veins in his neck poke out like the fat brown worms we catch catfish with. And he keep saying it everywhere he go, too, not just at dinner. At his lodge meeting. Up town at the Big Store. Downtown at the feed store. When he and Mama play spades with Miss Melba and her male friend from over in Mound Bayou. “We paid those poll taxes together. We learned those law questions for the test together,”  He say at the church meeting last week. “These white folks around here eating us alive and either we gone stand up or get rolled over. How many more bodies we got to see before we make a move against this foolishness?” Folks clapped and said amen.  Daddy, Mama, and all who got a dead family member got together and decided to stand up. That’s why we was all down at the county courthouse in the early morning hours before they open, waiting on the sheriff’s office to let us in.  “We gone show them we mean business,” Mama say. We all know the sheriff and those men in the long white masks are the ones killing any Negro who try to vote. The white folks say it’s wrong for us to vote, regardless of the law. Say that federal law don’t apply if local law don’t agree. And anyway, the sheriff say when he come up to the church a few days after LBJ sign the law, ain’t nobody gone enforce it, so we may as well work together. Can’t we find a way for everybody to get along? Nobody clap or say amen. The whole church just look at the sheriff until he clear his throat. He finally leave, slinking like an old chicken snake to the back door. “I know y’all don’t want to hear it,” he put on his hat. “But I’m just trying to see that the right thing is done. And we right about this, hard as it is for Nigras here to face. Don’t y’all want to do right by God?”  But if the white folks so right about everything, then why they cover their faces when they out tryna scare us? The sheriff ‘nem act like they shame or something. If it wadn’t right why they kill us about it? Ain’t that wrong? Why not try us in court and drag us through the law process? Or why not leave it to God if he on they side? Why come none of the white folks can tell us where in the Bible it say Negro folks can’t vote?   I may not know school books, but I know the Bible do talk about love, justice, and treating thy neighbor as thyself. It say thou shalt not kill, too. Mama say a lie don’t care who tell it, and that all them folks is lying about God. But I think the truth don’t care who tell it either. Truth is Uncle Asa body still there on the cooling slab at the county in the back of the jail, and the sheriff and the other men under those masks put him there. If we want to get Uncle Asa from up at the county, we got to pay $10, plus the cost of digging a grave in the church graveyard, plus that clean up fee. That’s close to $25 if we pay on time. If we don’t, we gone end up owing even more. When Daddy ask why more, the sheriff say the family owe an inconvenience fee. But the county ain’t the ones being inconvenienced. We is. Every time somebody get killed by the sheriff and his men, the church pay half and the family pay half. But with so many dead now, the church had to collect at least $250 to bury all them dead Negro bodies properly.  It take almost a year to earn an extra $25, especially when the prices at the feed store keep going up. Miss Melba say eventually all of us working around here will earn that land we farming on.  But I think she wrong. Truth is, every time we pay things off, the prices go up, and we still owe the white folks. Or they say we ain’t picked the right weight of cotton. I ain’t say much to Miss Melba, Mama, or Daddy, but seem to me them farmers tricking us back into working they fields for free, except this time they don’t call us slaves to our face.  Maybe I ain’t right in the head, but I know all about cotton because I used to help Daddy pick it. I can look at a whole field and tell how much every piece gone weigh when it all go to the gin at the end of the day.  I ain’t never been wrong. Not once. So when they say we ain’t picked enough to cover costs, I know that ain’t right. I tell Daddy that and he look at me funny. So now I don’t say nothing. The sheriff say some of us high-falutin' Nigras like Uncle Asa too ornery to see that it’s easier to let things stay the same. We should just keep paying the poll taxes or not vote at all. “That poll tax ain’t but $2.00,” he say to Daddy at the Big Store one day. “Over the last few years, all the Nigras that done got killed in the county come to at least $1500 in total. So if you can’t figure out the difference between $1500 and $2, that just proves you too gullible and misinformed to vote. The white folks here is good God-fearing christians and trying to do right by y’all. Ain’t we done always took care of you? Ask Asa that.”  When Daddy shake his head and walk off, the sheriff holler behind him, “All we gotta do is trust God and things will be all right! When y’all stop we all stop!” Uncle Asa ain’t never stop, though. So the sheriff ‘nem stopped him themselves. And they still trying to stop us even though Uncle Asa dead. The sheriff say somebody gotta pay what’s owed for them bodies or they gone have to start taking land or cutting down on the food they order for us to eat during the cold months when farming don’t pay. But them farmers don’t even pay for it since the government gives them surplus food direct. They supposed to give us that as part of our payment for working the land. And last year they ain’t gave us none of what we earned. But white folks can do mess that.  We can’t. The Greens and the Johnsons took they people’s bodies and left.  They put them in the ground and headed right up to Chicago. No funeral. Nothing. They say they ain’t paying a thing, no matter what the sheriff say. Say if the county want the extra fees, then let them come to Chicago and take it out they hands directly.   Now it’s Krafts, Grants, Boatwrights, and us left to pay up because we ain’t going nowhere. Daddy say to let them others go up north if they want to, but we ain’t eating cheese and we ain’t running neither.   “All the scared Negroes run north,” he say to Mama. When I showed up this morning, there was way more people there than just our few families. The congregations of all the Negro Baptist churches from the next county over came to stand with us. All the AMEs came, too. Then came the ones that don’t even go to church. Even the lady who sell Miss Melba her love perfume and burn hair to make folks sick was there.  Some brought extra money.  Anyway, the day before Daddy and some of the men went to banks down in Jackson and got all that money turned into pennies. I ain’t never seen that much money in my life, but it was so many pennies, the men had to bring they trucks to help carry it. They stayed up all night putting pennies in cotton sacks.  That’s how we gone pay it all for everybody, $2800 in pennies including them clean up fees. “Today we gone dump them pennies on the front desk in the sheriff’s office and tell him to count it his self,” Daddy say to the crowd. “That’s what the law say. So since the county all about business, the business of killing us over our rights is gone get harder and harder to carry out. So all who going with us, let’s line up and get ready. Kraft, Grant, and Boatwright families come to the front with us.” Don’t that sound like business to you? So why they got on working clothes and making me change out my clothes? I was gone ask Mama on the way back home, but Mama don’t listen to nothing I say, especially when Miss Melba get to chirping in her ear.  Mrs. Kraft and Mrs. Boatwright both old church mothers, and they can’t walk, so Daddy send for the young men to bring them in chairs from the lodge. At first he tell Mama just let me stay and wear my good clothes because it don’t matter what I got on long as I can carry pennies. But Mama gave him a look and then he say by the time the young men get back, me and Mama need to be back, too. Mama say she gone to check Miss Melba’s stove and make sure it’s off and see if the old tom cat got out the house. I better be ready in my right clothes when she get back. Not in my good dress but in the same overalls I chop cotton in. She say I bet not move til she get back, either.  Soon as I got in, I changed real quick. I been sitting here for a long time writing to you.  I want to go to Miss Melba’s and catch Mama, but I’m gone wait like she said to. I don’t want no more trouble. She might make me stay back. Them pennies ain’t gone carry they selves to the courthouse. I shole want to help. Take care and don’t forget about us while you up there at Valley State. I ain’t that smart, but you is, and I am real happy you learning how to be a good teacher.  Maybe you can come home and help me get better with school books. And just maybe by the time you come home, them county folks’ll be through counting our pennies. Love your big sister, Berenice ### 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.

Mecca M. Miles is a Black, queer writer and spoken word poet from San Antonio, Texas. Her work has appeared in such publications as Wellspringwords Literary Anthology , The San Antonio Review , Texas Bards Anthology , When the River Speaks , Voices de la Luna , Voices Along the River , and has been featured on Best of Button Poetry . She has competed nationwide, taking 8th in Florida at the Exit 36 Slam in 2023 and 8th in Dallas, TX at the Right to Write Slam in 2024. She has featured at a number of local venues and is the 2024/2025 Poetry Grand Slam Champion of San Antonio, TX. God Whispers on Leyland Drive The air is filled with ash-colored rings And the smell of dial soap The couch—  still holding the remnants  Of all the family  That have made bed of its cushions Calls out to me And my grandpa's smile Is a cold glass of milk on a Sunday morning.  As the gospel music ushers us into the day  He smokes Like the Bible had named it commandment Laughs Like God himself whispered some grand joke About some small thing Here In his house  The record player never skipped  The fridge was never empty  And the beer inside Never flung curses at children  There was more holy in these four walls  Than in my mother's church More welcome  Than I ever felt at home And I  all clumsy elbows and wonder, knees knocking with questions  sat among the smoke and gospel, On the floor by his feet,  Just some small thing Trying to make sense of a grand joke ### 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.

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.

Dr. Cheryl R. Hopson is the John P. Fishwick Associate Professor of Creative Writing at Roanoke College in Salem, Virginia. She has published essays on Alice Walker, Rebecca Walker, Zora Neale Hurston, and U.S. Black Feminism. Her poetry collection In Case You Get This (2023) was published by Finishing Line Press. In 2024, Reaktion Books published her biography Zora Neale Hurston . Alice Walker’s Mary Agnes Speaks They used to call me Squeak until I learned to speak back. Been singing, and writing my way to a me I can feel, and see, and to a life less riddled with stress and strife, you know? And my baby- child. No “Papa’s maybe” but Harpo’s – This Mama knows. People talk, honey. Get your money. ### 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.

Marchaé Grair (they/she) is a storyteller, spiritual seeker, and facilitator making meaning of life’s liminal spaces. They are an alum of residencies and workshops presented by Tin House, Anaphora Arts, Voices of our Nations (VONA), the Hurston/Wright Foundation, and Roots. Wounds. Words, where they were also a writer-in-residence. Marchaé’s work embodies their Black, queer, nonbinary, disabled, and polyamorous experiences. They are working on a queer, young adult romance novel loosely based on their life and other essays about identity. When they are not writing, they are rewatching their favorite rom-coms, downloading the new Sims expansion pack, or laughing a little too loudly at their own jokes. She/Not Her Before you fly, you always pack your clothing first because clothes take up almost all of your suitcase. After all, you are a Taurus Venus and never know when a surprise special occasion will call for sequins. And if forced to choose, you will stuff your suitcase with that just-in-case little black dress or those just-in-case little black briefs before you pack your migraine medicine or allergy pills. You stare at the edges of your carry-on suitcase as if they will magically expand, but the black zippered lining attaching the metallic blue, hard cover to the soft, gray inside doesn't budge. You remember the day you bought this carry-on from T.J. Maxx. You were in the middle of a travel spree; in January, you’d gone to Chicago to see one of your platonic loves, then driven to Montreal to vacation with your partner. Your last stop would be in the Dominican Republic to vacation with your long-distance lover. Your pregnant wife was traveling to California at the same time you were traveling to the Dominican Republic. You already felt bad enough for having needs, including needs that meant loving and fucking other people, so you certainly weren’t going to ask your wife if you could take the only household carry-on with four wheels. You both needed her to have that win. So you went to T.J. Maxx and walked around the suitcase section for fifty minutes. This was not the fancy, downtown, two-story T.J. Maxx that mesmerized you when you got lost years ago leaving your new job in downtown Boston. This was a reasonable T.J. Maxx in the Boston suburbs with a suitcase section so small that you missed it multiple times when you first scanned the store. Yet, it still took you almost an hour to browse through the carry-on suitcases because you didn’t know which one looked like it was made for someone like you. If this were the you who used to work downtown, you would have taken one look at the brown, faux-leather purse and carry-on hybrid bag in the corner and called it a night. Back then, you had a work wardrobe, and it was all discounted, from women’s department stores, and business casual. You were a young Bette Porter if she grew up in small-town Ohio and found her way East instead of West. You posted a now-hidden Instagram photo on your first day of work downtown in your favorite outfit: a black, form-fitting, Calvin Klein dress and a complementary Calvin Klein red and black blazer with pointed shoulders. Your hair was crocheted into long hair extensions that were worsening your then undiagnosed alopecia, but the braids made you feel beautiful. This version of you only showed up to work in an assortment of Fenty lipstick shades; Covid and gender confusion were years away, so you weren’t masking.  Present you hasn’t bought a purse in years, unless you count additions to your collection of tasteful   fanny packs. Past you decides against the faux leather purse and other carry-ons like it. Past you notices pastel Jessica Simpson carry-ons close by. You imagine yourself rolling pastel luggage behind you while wearing a hoodie, baggy jeans, and a t-shirt, and you shake your head. Your eyes land on a carry-on with a picture of a white businessman on the cardboard label of the branding. This carry-on is on a central display set apart from the other suitcases, so it must be special. You’re not exactly sure what your gender will be when you fly, but you know it won’t be white businessman. The other carry-ons to the left of the smiling white man whisper to you, “You don’t fly in first class, and you know you can’t even afford first class carry-ons at T.J. Maxx.” You’re unsure why these imaginary voices are so rude, but like most Bostonians, they are both rude and  correct, so you keep circling the suitcases. You stop in front of the metallic, ice-blue carry-on. You can see yourself wearing anything from sweatpants to a dress with this suitcase in tow. You know you will pack more feminine clothes this trip because you’re going to the Dominican Republic, an unfamiliar place, and unfamiliar places always bring out the woman in you. It’s not that you’re uncomfortable in women’s clothes; you especially love your summer dresses that are all cleavage on top and tradwife from the waist down. You just hate yourself a little bit for defaulting to ultra feminine clothes when you travel and need a shield—whether it‘s protection from men who are nicer to women they desire or protection from confused stares when people can’t quite guess if you’re a tomboy or a trans boi or a lesbian or a middle-aged Black woman trying to channel Billie Eilish.  You look at your phone and message your friend who you promised to visit after a quick trip to T.J. Maxx. You’re “coming, promise!” You think about a dinner you had with this friend years ago at a mediocre neighborhood bar and restaurant that is now a Life Alive. You’re glad it was still a bar then because you needed that tequila-based liquid courage with the pink salt rim to tell your friend you were using additional pronouns. You wished you could have also purchased liquid amnesia because your friend responded by saying nonbinary people were only in the cultural conversation because women weren't given enough room to be butch or more masculine. You said that wasn’t how it worked, then swallowed your tequila cocktail and your pride and changed the subject. You imagine yourself having more tequila-infused conversations about gender in the Dominican Republic, but this time, it would be with your lover who you met as a woman in 2010. She may still think of you that way since your body’s only gotten softer and rounder with time. She calls you beautiful, and you love it and believe her, but you wish she called you handsome sometimes, too, because your partner does that, and it makes you feel alive. You wonder if anyone who knew you fifteen years ago will ever think of you as the gender-bending switch you know yourself to be inside your head and beneath other people’s tangled sheets. You love your tender places, but you refuse to be reduced to those places alone just because you live in a Black, fat, soft body. The world expects you to mother it, but you’re not interested in your future child calling you mother, let alone being the whole world’s mammy. You understand your resistance to motherhood will be a one-way ticket to erasure in your child’s life; nurses and doctors already don’t acknowledge you during your wife’s prenatal care appointments because you’re not carrying the baby, and you’re not a man, so they don’t know what they should say to you, so they say nothing at all. You snap out of daydreaming about your future rejections because you are Black in a store with aggressive surveillance. The stacked video screens greeted you before anyone said hello. You’ve been at T.J. Maxx long enough for an extra “How may I help you?” to feel like a threat. You are a Sagittarius rising, so you text your friend that you’ll be on your way home soon, not knowing how soon, soon will be and grab the metallic blue carry-on off the shelf.  You pay $92.42 then fill the carry-on with your most feminine clothing for warm weather—a red one-piece you wore on Miami Beach when you wanted to look like a Baywatch lifeguard even though you can’t swim; a too-small red bikini top that hurts to snap but makes your boobs look less 40B and more 40C so you keep wearing it; black and white bikini bottoms that just cover the belly ring you should have stopped wearing 15 years ago; a blue jumpsuit with a deep dip at the chest that makes men do a double take that you are ashamed to admit you like; the jean shorts that are sexy when they’re sitting on your hips just right but more SNL-mom-jeans skit when they’re sitting all wrong; and some plain women’s tank tops because something has to be simple. You’re glad you won’t wear shoes at the beach because it’s one less thing to pack and one less way for you to be gendered. The last clothes you select for your trip are for the departure flight. You lay this outfit on the ratty gray comforter you won’t replace because you can only afford one new bed set, and you’re not sure what kind of bedding says you’re into sex but not as often as being non-monogamous might imply. Your airport travel outfit is always the same. A classic black and white Adidas tracksuit. You started wearing Adidas in high school, another time in your life you were hoping common brand names and neutral colors would make people treat you as less menacing. You hadn’t realized then that the leap from blending in to being invisible is less leap and more soul-crushing freefall. That every time you choose a jacket, or a shoe, or a lover, or an identity just to make someone else comfortable, you get farther away from yourself, and it isn’t that easy to find your way back. Even in your teens, your deepest desire was to be understood, and you learned the hard way that it’s impossible to be known when the mainstream paints your authentic existence as dangerous. People have always been too comfortable telling you all of the things they dislike about you without you asking. Too loud. Too opinionated. Too Black. Too scary. Wrong clothes. Wrong pronouns. Wrong body. You got tired of being told you were too much, so young, you learned how to make everything from your hair to your personality less big. You fried your scalp with sodium hydroxide for decades hoping to fit in, and in exchange, you got broken edges and a broken heart. Now, your natural hair is braided into old cornrows, so you pull a silk-lined, tan hat from a messy, plastic drawer by your bedroom door and lay it by your airport uniform. You grab a sports bra and tattered, pink, Victoria’s Secret underwear, the kind of underwear you never wear in the early days of a relationship because God forbid your lovers know you own granny panties. You would have chosen your gray, black, and white Tomboy briefs, but you remember the time a bulge in your sweats and the gathering of your briefs meant getting an extended pat down from TSA, and you refrain. You will wear your black and white Hokas with the Adidas sweatsuit because you’re a sometimes woman of a certain age, and your days of wearing shoes for style instead of function ended when you gained 50 pandemic pounds and got plantar fasciitis.  The last part of your travel wardrobe ritual is choosing your airport t-shirt. You open your overcrowded top dresser drawer and push aside all of the t-shirts reminding you who you are. The homemade Marxist shirt from your upstairs neighbor. The black Beyoncé concert t-shirt because you’re not fully anti-capitalist, especially if the dance floor is calling. The Boston Dyke March cutoffs you never wear in public because you’re unsure if word reclamation translates beyond those who do the reclaiming. The discolored t-shirt you bought in downtown Cleveland the day after the Cavs broke their championship losing streak and you realized you needed to break up with your abuser. The pink shirt with the wavy font listing all the reasons you believe in abolition. Your often foggy brain reaches for the Malcolm X quote that says something about the most disrespected person in America being the Black woman. You wonder what he would say about the Black trans person. You are no Malcolm X, but your existence is also threatening because your truths might make someone else want to be free. You choose a blue fitted Adidas top and start packing your toiletries.  ### 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.

Alana Benoit , a first-generation Black American with Afro-Caribbean and Afro-Central American heritage, holds a BA from Union College, an MA from the University of York (UK), and an MFA in creative writing from the Mississippi University for Women. Her work explores Black diasporic identity, particularly for Black women, women's labor, memory, family, and mental health through her writing. Raised in Harlem and now residing in North Carolina with her family, she is currently editing her first novel and developing a poetry collection. Bottle You hear the charge—aggravated assault. You don’t remember the incident. Don’t remember holding the bottle and hitting him on the head. You just remember him grabbing you, his hands around your throat, your heart rippling through your chest, and you gasping for air. You remember him pulling on your hair, your beautiful hair, and calling you a bitch. You had just asked him if he wanted steak potatoes or shoestring fries, and he said , only a bitch, a true bitch  wouldn’t know the difference, and he grabbed you. This time, he grabbed you by your beautiful hair, right in front of her, your daughter, and it was the look on her face that triggered it, a look of complete fear and despair, a look that said mommy’s going to die, and she and her beautiful hair are going to be put in the ground for the worms, and then you blacked out. You see him sitting there, the bandage from his jawline to his eye; he’s been mutilated. He reminds you of a wounded deer that has crashed into the passenger seat of a car, fractured and inconsolable; he’s been crying. You can’t imagine him ever crying, but here he is, with tissues and shit, and you can’t believe what you’re seeing. You can’t believe that this nigga is crying. You swallow hard, hard because it comes back at first slowly, and then hits the silence —the glass bottle that you held. A Heineken, green and cold, his favorite, you held it tight, and in an instant broke the top. You broke the fucking top and flashed back to a time when you were seven, like your daughter, and a group of boys tried to trap you in a junkyard, and you picked up whatever you could. You ripped them apart, swiftly striking the biggest one — the one with the loudest mouth and most to lose — who, after the blow, ran. You get a whiff of your lawyer's cologne, woodsy and musky. It reminds you of the cologne that belonged to him, which your daughter accidentally broke on New Year's, and it takes you back to a recent memory of her. Two days ago, you were braiding her hair. She sat between your legs, and you were halfway through giving her a head full of cornrows, beautifully designed into heart shapes. “Is he coming back?” she asked suddenly. She was always very perceptive for her age. You don’t want to disappoint her, but you have to be honest. “He might,” you said. “I don’t like him; he scares me.” “I’d never let him hurt you.” “What if he hurts you?” You continue braiding her hair. One strand over the other, intricately weaving the tendrils into a majestic array with cowrie shells and brown wooden beads at the ends. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m the adult, remember.” You watch her play with the doll in her lap, braiding its curly black hair as you do hers. You can’t believe your luck to have a child so smart and lovely. “All done,” you say and show her the mirror. She looks at herself admiringly and smiles. “Thank you, mommy,” she says, and it crushes you. You look at the judge who’s speaking to you now. How do you plead? Not guilty, you say. Your lawyer, next to you, wears a gray suit with tiny pumpkin pins on his tie, looks typically disheveled and uncoordinated for a public defender. He writes something on his yellow pad and looks at you with a grim frown. You just met. He asked you two questions: what will you plead? Do you have childcare? You answered not guilty and yes, because at the time, you didn’t remember. You return his frown with one of your own, and the look says, ask for fucking bail, you goddamn broken motherfucker. You can’t believe your own fury; he’s there to help you after all, but you can’t help but wish he chose a better suit. You know he’s overworked. Too many cases. Too many bottles. But this is your life. This is her  life. You don’t know where the rage is coming from. In all your years with him, the mutilated one, you never felt rage, just a quiet contempt. You believed it was your lot. You don’t anymore. Won’t. Your lawyer speaks:  Your honor, my client has no prior history, has a daughter aged seven, and is not a flight risk. I ask that bail be waived.  The judge looks up from her notes and stares at you again. Bail is set for ten thousand dollars , she says blankly. Her heavily powdered white face is resistant to any kind of appeal. You have savings, you’ll meet the bail bondsmen, you’ll be home within a day. You look for the first time at your mother in the audience. She’s crying. She cried out, NO! when the bail was announced. You tell her it’s okay. Mommy, you say, shush. She stifles her cry with her hands. You look again at him, at his face, at the bandage that surely covers a jagged line from jaw to eye, and realize that you must have been going for the eye, and you missed, you fucking missed, because there he is still crying. ### 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.

Shia Shabazz Smith is a writer-director and educator based in Oakland, California. With over 20 years of storytelling across mediums, her work centers Black voices, cultural integrity, and emotional truth. Her directorial debut, DAWN —a love story with a kiss of a sci-fi twist—is currently in post-production. As a screenwriter, her short film Curdled offers a humorous and poignant glimpse into a prenatal support group for women over 40. Starring Keke Palmer, Robinne Lee, and Chenoa Maxwell, Curdled has screened at eight international film festivals. Shia’s writing spans narrative, documentary, and animation, including I Am a King , an animated series celebrating the brilliance of Black boys. Beyond her creative work, Shia is committed to nurturing the next generation of storytellers. She has served as a recurring speaker for BAVC Media youth programs, a mentor for BAYCAT in San Francisco, and as part of the leadership team at Black Girls Film Camp. A Cave Canem Fellow and three-time Sundance Screenwriters Lab second-round advancer, Shia continues to create intentional art that transforms, heals, and liberates. She was honored as the inaugural “Spark” artist in Torch Literary Journal , recognized by established and celebrated writers. Additional honors include being named Muse of African American Poetry for the City of Alameda and premiering her one-woman show, Moments We Know , at the John L. Warfield Center for African and African American Studies at the University of Texas at Austin. Shia’s work continues to evolve across film, literature, and performance, carrying forward her commitment to telling stories that embody depth, honesty, and liberation. Doll based on real people and events EXT. TONI’S APARTMENT - BALCONY - NIGHT (1975) TONI JUNIOR “TJ” (5, alert, observant) stilts her Barbie up the stairs of a milk crate makeshift “dream house.” The doll wears a wrap dress made of ribbons and cloth. TJ’s mom, TONI (25, chaotic, weary) chain-smokes; peers through binoculars at a distant DRIVE-IN THEATER SCREENING of the film, MAHOGANY. INSERT: Through binocular lenses, the scene in Mahogany plays where TRACEY (Diana Ross) screams erratically into the face of her hopeless lover, BRIAN (Billy Dee). TONI (mimics Tracey, fiery) I’m gonna be a bigger success than you can ever see! TJ (sighs) You always watch this. TONI Shhh! Toni scowls to portray “Brian.” TONI (CONT'D) (mimics Brian, intensely) Success is nothing without someone to share it with. The phone rings INSIDE. Toni stamps out her cigarette in the large, ash and cigarette-butt-filled abalone shell ashtray, opens the sliding glass door, goes INSIDE, and closes the door behind her. TJ remains on the balcony, picks up the binoculars, watches Mahogany, curiously. INT. TONI'S APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS Toni races through the cluttered room, the air thick with tension and smoke. She answers the phone, paces with it. TONI Lead Engineer? That’s so exciting. Congratulations! MAN’S VOICE (O.C.) (on phone) We should celebrate. Maybe... Vegas? Toni pauses, speechlessly excited for a beat. Toni abruptly turns, remembers TJ. She marches to the sliding glass door, KNOCKS on it, GRUNTS an inaudible command with a curt finger wave. TJ puts the binoculars down, goes back to her doll play. MAN’S VOICE (O.C.) (CONT'D) (on phone) Hello? TONI I’m here. MAN’S VOICE (O.C.) (on phone) So? Toni’s gaze floats up, lands on a framed photo of her “bougie,” disapproving mother, BOSS “NANA” WILLIS (58), and her loving father, NATHANIEL “GRAMPA” (60), looking down on her. Toni stands taller, proudly lifts her chin. TJ (O.S.) (angrily) I hate you! I hate you! Toni suddenly turns to see TJ, ON THE BALCONY, shaking Barbie as if Barbie is a pissed-off Tracey from Mahogany. TJ (CONT'D) You’re a goddamn loser! TONI (sotto, sighs) Fuck. (into phone) I’ll call you back. Exasperated, Toni hangs up, whips the door open. TJ freezes. TONI (CONT'D) TJ. We gotta get packed. Everything’s about to change! The hope in Toni’s face brightens in TJ’s like contagion. INT. TONI’S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - NIGHT In their shared room, a queen bed in the center, Toni and TJ race around to get dressed and pack. Toni’s energy is chaotic; TJ’s, excited. As they talk, a MONTAGE of their life generally together flashes. - ONE NIGHT. The Two asleep in the SHARED BED. TJ (V.O.) What should we bring? - ANOTHER NIGHT. Toni exits their bedroom nearly naked. A sliver of light in the dark BEDROOM falls on TJ’s face as she watches Toni entertain a MALE GUEST IN THE LIVINGROOM. TONI (V.O.) Just enough for the weekend. - A DIFFERENT DAY. TJ sits on the floor between Toni’s legs as Toni combs TJ’s hair into ponytails adorned with BALLS and BARETTES. TJ (V.O.) (confused) So, my jumpsuit? Some shorts...? - ANOTHER NIGHT. TJ picks up beer bottles from IN THE LIVING ROOM around Toni who lays passed out on the couch in her COSMETOLOGY UNIFORM. TJ (V.O.) (confused) My purple clogs! - The Two laugh, eat bowls of sugary cereal at the BREAKFAST TABLE. TONI (V.O.) (harried) Yeah. Sure. Montage ENDS. TJ pauses, notices Toni fixes her hair, dresses up. TJ immediately brushes her unruly fro in random strokes. TONI No, Babe. Keep your jammies on. TJ Where we going? EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING - CORRIDOR - CONTINUOUS Toni’s “disco queen” ensemble is a stark contrast to TJ’s long quilted robe jacket and jammies. TJ trails in fits and skips to keep up with Toni’s brisk pace. TJ carries her Barbie and lugs a trash bag of clothes behind her. TONI You’re gonna be where I tell you to be. TJ’s expression saddens. TJ But where’re you gonna be? They stop in front of a door. Toni rolls her eyes, abruptly KNOCKS. The door swings open. CANDI (50s), a brick house, transwoman, dressed like DONNA SUMMER, checks them out. CANDI Nope. Sorry, Love. Can’t. I’m on a double shift. It’s “She Works Hard for the Money” Friday which means closeted frat boys and triple tips. TONI But... Come on, Candi. Toni nudges TJ. TJ Come on Candi. TJ smiles her sweetest smile. CANDI (to Toni) No... (to TJ) And no. (to Toni) Don’t teach her that. Sorry, I can’t. Candi closes the door. INT. TONI'S APARTMENT - NIGHT TJ plays with her doll on the couch as Toni paces, makes call after call. TONI Hey! Shell. I know it’s last minute. But, well, TJ needs somewhere to stay for the weekend. I need to-- oh... okay. No, it’s cool. I understand. She hangs up, paces, makes ANOTHER CALL. TONI (CONT'D) Hi Miss Wolfe... TJ (under her breath) She’s mean. TONI (scowls, to TJ) Shhh! (into receiver) Hi Ma’am. It’s Toni Willis. TJ’s mom... from preschool. I need to run out of town real quick. I was wondering if you could keep TJ. I need to know pretty quickly so please call me back if you can. ANOTHER CALL. TONI (CONT'D) Jenny! What’s up, Girl? What? Nothing. I’mma get it to you when I-- hello? (sotto) Bitch. Toni slams the receiver down, hangs up. TJ (pensively) I could come with you. Toni abruptly stops, her body convulsing fitfully before she drops to the floor. TJ races to her, shakes her. TJ (CONT'D) Mama? Mama... stop. It’s not funny. Okay, I don’t have to go. Toni’s limp body draws TJ to curl herself next to her mom until TJ weeps inconsolably. Suddenly, Toni bursts with laughter. TONI You are such a drama queen. Get up. They get up, sit on the couch. TONI (CONT'D) You’re such a serious kid. Lighten up. You don’t like to have fun. That’s why I need time by myself sometimes. After a beat, Toni looks again at the image of her PARENTS. She rolls her eyes, takes a deep breath. TONI (CONT'D) Grab your bag. EXT. SAN DIEGO - NIGHT Toni’s Volkswagon Beetle travels the HIGHWAYS, SHORELINE, STREETS of the city... EXT. NANA AND GRAMPA’S HOUSE - NIGHT ... parks curbside at a beautiful Spanish-style bungalow with its manicured lawn, floral landscaping, and shiny 1970 PLYMOUTH FURY parked in the driveway. INT./EXT. TONI’S VOLKSWAGON BEETLE - NIGHT Tony glances at TJ, sound asleep in the backseat. EXT. NANA AND GRAMPA’S HOUSE - NIGHT On the porch, Toni holds TJ in one arm, carries her clothes bag in the other. She sets the bag down and rings the doorbell, BREATHES DEEPLY. Nana, regal in her PEIGNOIR SET, chiffon lace long robe and nightgown, opens the door, SIGHS. Her cinnamon skin is flawless with the glow of nighttime moisturizer. Nana’s lips curl into the obligation of a smile. Her brow raises with expected disappointment. Retired Navy man Grampa, a fit good-looking “good cop” to Nana’s “bad cop,” slides past Nana, takes TJ from Toni’s arms, kisses Toni on the cheek before disappearing back into the house, TJ cradled against his chest. Toni and Nana’s conversation occurs as their SLO MO transaction happens. NANA (V.O.) What time can we expect you back? TONI (V.O.) Sunday. By six P.M. NANA (V.O.) Not a second later. Your father has work. TONI (V.O.) I know, Mah. I’ll be back. Nana takes, inspects the bag scornfully. She and Toni “air kiss” cheeks then Toni heads back for her car, tugging at her clothes, smoothing her hair insecurely. Nana watches until she gets into the car. Toni sits in her car. The light on the porch goes out. Toni weeps, then musters the energy to start the car. INT. NANA AND GRAMPA’S HOUSE - VARIOUS ROOMS - DAY A song like “April in Paris” by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong plays as LIGHT pours through windows of the immaculate home that exudes care. NANA (V.O.) (dreamy whisper) Doll... Montage BEGINS - IN THE LIVINGROOM: A white SOFA sits on lush white CARPET under two large METAL PEACOCK wall hangings. - Porcelain and wooden Japanese STATUETTES and FIGURINES sit on the large mahogany credenza where the integrated record player sits. Framed wedding photos of the YOUNGER NANA AND GRAMPA, and various others with TONI and TJ. - IN NANA AND GRAMPA’S BEDROOM: Beautiful quilts on an IRON FRAMED bed. A large wooden dresser holds fancy PERFUME and COLOGNE BOTTLES, and an ORNATE JEWELRY BOX. NANA (V.O.) (dreamy whisper) Doll... - IN THE KITCHEN: while batter pours onto a hot GRIDDLE into perfectly circular hotcakes, coffee PERCOLATES. - COFFEE IS POURED; slightly creamed in one teacup and heavily creamed and sugared in the other. Montage ENDS. INT. NANA AND GRAMPA’S HOME - GUEST ROOM - CONTINUOUS Nana sits on the edge of the bed, rouses TJ from sleep. NANA (dreamy whisper) Good morning, Doll. Her Barbie tucked in next to her, TJ awakens to see Nana, sitting gracefully on the edge of the bed like a dream. NANA (CONT'D) (softly) Go ahead and get changed. We have lots to do today. The day is waiting. Nana exits to reveal a petite pink PEIGNOIR SET in her size with matching SLIPPERS. TJ gasps, quietly squeals with excitement. INT. NANA AND GRAMPA'S HOME - TV ROOM - DAY Nana and TJ sit in matching BARCALOUNGERS. TJ’s Barbie tucked in the cushion at her hip. Grampa delivers breakfast to them; fine China served on TV trays; Nana’s floral and TJ’s with cartoon characters. He turns the TV on to their favorite GAME SHOW. TJ I hope someone wins the trip to Mazatlán. NANA Yes, Doll. They clink coffee-filled teacups, daintily. INT. BEAUTY SALON - DAY The timer DINGS and the large DRYER HOODS are lifted from Nana’s and TJ’s roller-stacked heads. TJ Is it your birthday? It just feels like a special day. CLIENTS (30s-50s, Black women) in the shop SMILE. NANA You can make any day feel special. TJ YOU make every day feel special. NANA No, Doll. YOU are the one that makes special, special. STYLIST #1 We ready? As Nana and TJ move to styling chairs, TJ studies posters of BLACK MODELS with beautiful diverse hair and styles. STYLIST #1 (CONT'D) So, what’re we doing today, Boss? NANA Let’s see. It needs to last until tomorrow so keep it simple and smooth. STYLIST #1 Soft sophistication. NANA Exactly. TJ (whispers) Why does she call you, Boss? NANA That’s my name. TJ So is my name, Doll? NANA I call you Doll because you’re precious to me. Boss is the name I was born with. TJ Like, your name-name? NANA Yep, it was sort of a trick of my Mother’s. Nana winks at TJ as Stylist #2 hands TJ back her Barbie with newly styled hair. STYLIST #2 We can’t have you looking like a star and your little friend looking a mess. TJ’s eyes widen with awe at Barbie’s newly styled hair. The shop buzzes with LAUGHTER and CONVERSATION. EXT. AFFLUENT NEIGHBORHOOD - CHILDREN’S BOUTIQUE - DAY Nana parks the Plymouth at the curb. INT./EXT. PLYMOUTH FURY - DAY Nana removes her large sunglasses, turns to TJ in the backseat. Both have newly, beautifully coiffed hair. NANA So, Doll, Grampa and I were supposed to go to the theater for a matinee performance tomorrow but you being here is a good excuse for him to not go. So, how about it? You and me? TJ Yes! NANA Then we should get you something to wear. TJ’s expression fills with excitement before she releases herself into tears. NANA (CONT'D) Come, come... Just climb over. TJ crawls over the seat, scoots in close for Nana’s hug. NANA (CONT'D) What’s this about? TJ I feel like Mama’s gonna be mad if I get new clothes. NANA Why would she be mad? TJ I don’t know. But she is. NANA You let me deal with your mama. No matter what happens in your life, remember this... You’re good because you’re God’s. You’re beautiful because you’re mine. And I get to spoil you because I don’t get to see you as much as I’d like, AND, because you deserve it, okay? So, let’s go find something that makes you see what I already see in you. Okay? TJ Okay. TJ nods. They hug. INT. CHILDREN’S BOUTIQUE - DAY Fine clothes and shoes line displays. Petit MANNEQUINS sport high-end clothing. Nana sashays with confidence. TJ follows in awe. SALES CLERK (50s, white and entitled) watches from a distant rack. As customers MOTHER (30s, white), and DAUGHTER (8, white) enter, Clerk greets them. CLERK Welcome in. Let me know if you need anything. Mother and Clerk exchange pleasant nods. Nana smirks as she peruses the racks, pulls items, holds them up to TJ. Clerk finally approaches. CLERK (CONT'D) Is there something I can help you with? NANA Not right now. I will let you know. CLERK We have a few of last season’s items on the sale rack in the back in case you are interested. NANA We’re not. Nana holds a beautiful dress up to TJ. NANA (CONT'D) Actually, you can take this to a dressing room. Oh, and this... and this... Nana pulls other garments from the rack, stacks them in Clerk’s unsuspecting arms before Clerk can object. Nana sits on the settee in front of the dressing room as TJ floats in and out, OUTFIT after OUTFIT. They make APPROVING and DISAPPROVING gestures while having a blast. Finally, arms filled with garments, Nana whispers into the dressing room as TJ puts her clothes back on. NANA (CONT'D) We’re getting these. Be right back, Doll. TJ Okay, Nana. AT THE REGISTER, arms filled with clothes, Nana spots something behind Clerk on a shelf. NANA Oh, and I’d like... that. Nana points to a child’s SUITCASE on a shelf. CLERK Ma’am, I won’t object to her trying on the clothes but I don’t want to go through the trouble of getting that very expensive bag if you haven’t the money to pay for it. NANA And put it in a nice gift box. Nana hands Clerk a credit card. CLERK Is this a joke? INSERT: Credit card reads “BOSS WILLIS” EXT. AFFLUENT NEIGHBORHOOD - CHILDREN'S BOUTIQUE - DAY Large GIFT BOX in one hand and shopping bags in the others, Nana exits the shop haughtily. TJ strides identically in tow. EXT. AFFLUENT NEIGHBORHOOD - CAFE - CONTINUOUS Nana surveys the ALL WHITE DINERS occupying the outdoor PATIO tables. She smirks. NANA Hungry, Doll? TJ notices the GLARES of the Mother and Daughter from the Boutique. When Daughter looks away from TJ with a snide arrogance, TJ clings to Nana’s arm. Nana notices TJ and the Daughter’s interaction. NANA (CONT'D) Doll? TJ Yes, Nana? NANA Remember, you’re good because... TJ I’m God’s. NANA You are beautiful because... TJ I’m yours. They take a deep breath and enter the Cafe. HOSTESS, 20s, greets them cheerfully. HOSTESS Welcome. Two? Indoor or outdoor...? INT. NANA AND GRAMPA'S HOME - BATHROOM - NIGHT In their matching peignoir sets, TJ stands on a stepstool next to Nana, mimics Nana as they wipe AVOCADO MASKS from their faces with washcloths, their hair neatly pin-curled and tucked under satin scarves. NANA Make sure the towel is a little warm and that you clean all of the parts of your face. (supportively) That’s it... Yes, Doll. Then, they gently smooth MOISTURIZER on their faces. NANA (CONT'D) Moisturizing is very important. Nana and TJ look at each other fondly, playfully as they finish the facial regimen. INT. PERFORMANCE VENUE - VARIOUS - DAY Fancily dressed, Nana and TJ wade confidently, audaciously through throngs of richly dressed THEATER-GOERS (white, all ages and genders). Many watch them with the disdain of privilege, self-importance. At their seats, Theater-Goers whisper INAUDIBLY. TJ’s oblivious wonder shields her from the hostility of glares around them. Nana ignores them, watches her Granddaughter look around the hall in awe. HOUSE LIGHTS DIM. As the ORCHESTRA plays, Nana watches the performance as much as she watches TJ’s unbridled enjoyment of it. EXT. NANA AND GRAMPA'S HOME - DAY Grampa waters the flowers as Nana pulls the car into the driveway. TJ bounds from the backseat for Grampa, who drops the hose just in time to catch her. TJ Grampa! You missed it! It was so fun. GRAMPA Fun? Are you sure you went to the ballet? TJ There was a girl and she went to sleep and she got a doll like mine but hers came to life. She was dancing! GRAMPA You wanna show me? Nana watches adoringly as the Two prance around the lawn. EXT. NANA AND GRAMPA'S HOME - PORCH - NIGHT Toni’s claw-like red painted nail presses the DOORBELL. INT. NANA AND GRAMPA'S HOME - LIVINGROOM - CONTINUOUS The front door opens. ON THE PORCH, Toni stands giddy in a long white form-fitting dress, dramatic shimmering makeup, and voluminous curly wig. Her new beau, LUTHER, a suit-clad Goliath, towers behind her in all white; shirtless leather vest and pants with white boots. TONI Here comes the bride! Toni throws her hands in the air a la Diana Ross in her greatest performance. Fingers splayed, she lowers her left hand, arm outstretched to show off a gaudy WEDDING RING. INT. NANA AND GRAMPA'S HOME - KITCHEN - NIGHT Grampa swigs the last of his scotch; carries serving dishes of STEAKS, POTATOES, and PEAS to the DINING ROOM. INT. NANA AND GRAMPA'S HOME - DINING ROOM - CONTINUOUS Grampa places the serving dishes in the center of the circular table where ALL sit for dinner. Toni dominates conversation. Luther eats loudly throughout the escalating exchange. TONI And when he said Vegas, I couldn’t imagine a more romantic place to spend a weekend. Everything was so perfect that he, well, you tell ‘em that part. LUTHER I asked her to marry me. TJ side-eyes Luther, pushes her food around her plate. TONI (to TJ) Eat. TJ looks at Nana’s plate; an adult serving of her own. TJ places her fork in her hand identical to Nana’s, sits up tall, and, from then on, eats when Nana eats. NANA I’m sorry, Luther, is it? Did it occur to you to ask her father, first. Nana forks a bite of potatoes, eats it. TJ does the same. TONI Oh, Mah, cut it out. We did that last time. You see how that worked out. LUTHER Food’s delicious. NANA Nathaniel was a chef in the Navy. I’m glad you can appreciate a good meal. TONI What is that supposed to mean? GRAMPA Toni. She didn’t mean anything by it. Nana and TJ cut their steaks; eat a bite. TONI She always means something. Nana chews quickly as not to speak with a full mouth. NANA Respectfully, when we got married-- TONI Respectfully, we ain’t in Arkansas and I ain’t no first time virgin-bride that you’re giving away in some arranged courtship. We’re going with the flow. NANA (to Luther) What do you know about raising children? TJ eyes Luther until Toni snaps, startles TJ. TONI (hisses) That’s my job. Luther’s job is to provide for our family. Like Daddy does. Luther is a good provider. You know, you got so much to say but I don’t see you around here doing your job. Daddy was in the Navy. Gave you all the things you got and you just sit up here and wait for him to wait on you hand and foot... GRAMPA Toni... NANA No, let her finish. Nana puts her fork down. So does TJ. TONI You’re just mad because I never caved to your highness. Never begged for your attention. “Please, Bossa, make me like you. Yassa Bossa-Momma, whatever you want.” You can sit up there and keep looking down on me from your high horse. Luther is gonna be a successful engineer. He married ME because success is nothing without someone to share it with. NANA (guffaws) Mahogany. Hah! (earnestly) Honor your father an mother, that your days may be long in the land that the Lord your God is giving you. Exodus twenty twelve. TONI Exodus. No problem. WE’RE a family now. Let’s go. Toni gets up, eyes Luther to do the same. LUTHER Thank y’all for this evening. It was... an evening. TONI (O.S.) (yells) TJ! TJ’s eyes well with tears. Defiantly, she cuts her steak, eats another bite. Before she can cut another cube, Nana puts her hand on TJ’s, nods softly. TJ drops the knife and fork, weeps. INT. NANA AND GRAMPA'S HOME - GUEST ROOM - NIGHT Nana packs TJ’s new suitcase with TJ’s things. Nana kneels, straightens TJ’s coat, smooths her curls; a final shield of dignity. Their eyes intensely lock. NANA You’re good... and you’re beautiful. Eye to eye, they share a brave, tearful nod. EXT. WILLIS' HOME - PORCH - NIGHT In her purple clogs, TJ wheels her new suitcase into the darkness of the walkway, to Luther’s monstrous CADDY. From the lit porch, Nana and Grampa watch her, Toni, and Luther load into the car. INT./EXT. LUTHER’S CADDY - NIGHT From the front seat, Toni turns around, scolds TJ in the backseat. TONI And no more of that “Doll” shit, either. Toni Junior. TJ. That’s your name. LUTHER Toni her daddy? TONI (snaps, guffaws) How you smart and stupid at the same time. It’s me. Short for Antoinette. Toni rummages through her purse, finds her packet of cigarettes. Takes one out as she looks in the rearview mirror, sees Nana and Grampa peering from the porch. TONI (CONT'D) Go! Luther takes the cigarette from her, winks, tucks it behind his ear. LUTHER Antoinette. That’s beautiful. Toni gasps dreamily. She and Luther kiss passionately. TJ scowls, looks away. TONI TJ. This is LUTHER. Your new Dad. Luther fixes the rearview on TJ. LUTHER You ready? Luther GUFFAWS as TJ turns to look out the rear window. He repositions the mirror for driving. TJ cries softly. TONI Turn around and sit down! Stop all that crying or I’mma give you something to cry about. It’s rude. (to Luther) See? What I tell you? (to TJ) When we get home, you gon’ take all that shit off you. Got you looking like you should be in a curio cabinet. Luther and Toni laugh at TJ as he finally starts the car. ON THE PORCH, Nana waves back as the car pulls away. Before anyone notices, Nana quickly wipes a tear from her face. Her body stiffens, quiet dread washes over her as the car disappears around the corner. TONI (CONT'D) TJ... You should see his apartment. It’s so nice... Toni continues her doting rant in the b.g. TJ turns around, sits forward in the seat, clutches Barbie tightly against the Nutcracker program. She straightens the collar on her coat and smooths her curls as the car drives on. FADE TO BLACK THE END ### 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.

Jennifer Maritza McCauley is the author of the cross-genre collection SCAR ON/SCAR OFF (Stalking Horse Press),  When Trying to Return Home  (Counterpoint Press), a short story collection,  Kinds of Grace  (Flowersong Press), a poetry collection, and the forthcoming speculative fiction collection  Neon Steel  (Cornerstone Press/University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point.) Her newest poetry collection VERSUS will be released by Texas Review Press in March 2027. She has received fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts (prose), Kimbilio (fiction), CantoMundo (poetry), Sundress Academy for the Arts (hybrid). She earned her MFA in creative writing from Florida International University and PhD in literature and creative writing from the University of Missouri-Columbia. She is fiction editor at  Pleiades  and an assistant professor of English at the University of Missouri-Kansas City.  Africa Hollers Back to Me (After “Beng Beng Beng” by Femi Kuti)  Tatatata Tatatatata ta I’m fresh-skinned and ain’t got no time  for beef-ridden days under the underbelly of Motherland The Black girls holler “ay, ay” and I’m in with ‘em, the cut or whatever you looking for. Ain’t been back for a minute  but I’m back and y’all read my past.  Figure it out in distinct hieroglyphics  or chopped units of sound snatched the wig from e’rbody’s core  and I know exactly how you mewl.  I ain’t been back since I got down  to Lagos sound: oya, bebe  para mi cuerpo, that’s right:   kai, na wahala bengbengbeng like we got that trembling,  heartsplit sound. So bring in that riddim baby, kiss me swift under your leaf-drip’d tree and let that mother-bass keep going going going going  until my purple mouth is your blue one  and we’re both  fucking  screaming one last time.  ### 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.

Cheryl Boyce-Taylor is a Trinidadian poet, teaching artist, and theatre performer who lives in New York. Her latest collection, The Limitless Heart,  won the 2024 CLMP Firecracker Award. Born in Trinidad and raised in Queens, New York, Cheryl Boyce-Taylor is the author of seven collections of poetry. In 2021, her verse memoir,  Mama Phife Represents,  won The Publishing Triangle’s Audre Lorde award and honors her son, Hip-Hop legend Malik, aka Phife Dawg, of A Tribe Called Quest. Her latest collection,  The Limitless Heart,  won the 2024 CLMP Firecracker Award. Cheryl is currently working on her eighth collection of poetry. Last Visit to Arima River Outside the back bedroom window Calla lilies lift their heads  At GG’s house the off-white family room is still here  It’s where I learned to pray  Where I learned to sneak sips of wine  Learned to keep secrets  It is where everything was already hidden before I was born If I stay here I will turn to stone I can already feel the rage building  Shooting up my spine uninvited I could write until I burst Two streets away I feel the familiar smell and magnitude of river It is there grandma will cut our hair only in full moon Twelve years and river still talking loud Her big screech calls me to the stark awakening of day It is her laughter that still brings me joy It is her clear eyes that surround me like mirrors Her gurgling that brings me poems Her arms holding me in a clear blue wall of clarity I wait for poems hungry as a bird unfed for weeks When they arrive my poems are full grown they are already written Sweeter days are here her mouth covers mine In this new calla bloom  morning rain has swept the sky. MISTAKEN They set we world on fire hope yuh happy now watching we burn real fear in de air feels like white sage and Florida water ain't fixing shit meh blood pressure meds  albuterol  quick insulin  extra heart monitor  poetry books bank card  house keys   in de whole foods trolley by de door ah go ha to buy water when ah reach weyever ah goin nowadays ah duz walk wid meh us passport  non-drivers id   passport card social security de new real card wid US flag w/o meh mask  de aint go care I Malik mother de go mistake meh for senagalese  haitian  panamanian   bajan black trinidadian immigrant gang member alien slave black mother black  democrat  other other anti-trump- r undocumented slave self deported-- Dad did you See my mother Slight slip of a girl   dad Fifth grade   did you love her then too Her hair a black majestic rain Two proud braids high Rockets JUNE PLUMS My father is forever my child when I arrive in Trinidad                                                                                                                   he begs for bread and wine he begs for new crisp American dollars                                                                                        and a white shirt for he sista funeral at sixteen he begs me to ask my mother to take him back even though he loves another woman he loves my mother more                                                                                                                he says my father shows me a picture of a small freckle faced child swears me to secrecy promise that I will not tell my mother about the boy he’s hiding father takes me to the ocean to meet my little brother August sea still warm I make a necklace of seaweeds for his gleaming neck my father thanks me for the boy’s gift throws himself into my arms rage eating me like June plums. wonder if he loves this light skin boy more than me? After the Gray Pitbull in Fort Greene Park I hope never to know the sharp edge  of a pit’s teeth we are pressed against a tree listening to his truth  praying for safety  evening drew near  a soft cover around us we pulled closer  asking mist to cover and shield  we were trespassing  running from our world/ourselves  from the barking of wild dogs in this nightmare   we became stone  we became ghost jasper  mesh  piss   became fire  siren  scream became toddler  gravity  nameless    dust  santera   sage THE INTERVIEW This interview was conducted between Cheryl Boyce-Taylor and Jae Nichelle on August 5th, 2025. Wow, thank you so much for sharing this breathtaking series of poems. I love the lines “I wait for poems hungry as a bird unfed for weeks/ When they arrive/ my poems are full grown.” Does this reflect your general writing process? When’s the last time a poem arrived “full grown?” Laughter…  The last “fully grown” poem arrived in 2022. It is the closing poem in The Limitless Heart , titled “She Led Me.” And no, it does not reflect my writing process. This has happened on several occasions, though, usually when there is someone or something on my mind that I cannot shake or escape. “Mistaken” leaves me speechless. Especially the moment “de aint go care I Malik mother,” as mother becomes the first instance of self-prescribed identity. Outside of race and gender, what aspects of your identity and personhood do you care to describe yourself with most? Mother, daughter, Caribbean Woman Poet. The first time I knew I would die for something was when I became a mother. And even though my son is no longer here with us, the most important thing that I am is still a MOTHER. These poems are so rhythmic, frequently featuring single words pulled out or listed. In what ways, if any, has the rhythm of your poetry changed over the years? I cannot even say that the rhythm of my poetry has changed very much. I think it is the same, serious, soulful, organic thing it always was. But even then, it really depends on the theme of the poem, the mood of the event. And I would say as I get older, my poems are becoming a bit heavier, mostly because of the challenging times in which we live. I feel less safe or stable. My poems still come to me in dreams, fantasy, or memory; mostly, they wait for me in the blue cut of skin where desire begins. I feel a rush, a warm glow on my skin, a sense of anticipation and elation when the poem begins. Then, I must be alone to build it. Even the feel of pen to paper is an erotic act for me. I remember when I worked in New York City and took the subway from Brooklyn; I would carry the new poem with me everywhere, peeking at it, smiling at it, reading it over and over, almost like a new lover. It’s a kind of crazy thing. My poems are a sacred part of my soul that I could never give up. I let them shape their own rhythm…they run the show, not me. In an  incredible interview with Glenis Redmond , you talked about how you’ve become more honest and forthright in your writing and how you “don’t give a damn” about what you say in your work. Is there anything at all that still feels hard to say these days? Actually, I did not mean for it to sound like I don’t care. I do care. What I really meant was that I’m not afraid or ashamed to share anything anymore, or if I’m judged or disliked, or even misunderstood. The poem has a life of its own. In my MFA program at Stonecoast, they used to say a poem is a “made thing.” I’ve learned over the years that I don’t make it, it makes itself, and I have to respect that. I remember having a conversation with Ronald K. Brown of Evidence Dance Company once when we were on tour. I asked him how he made his decisions on his choreography, the music, movement, and text for a program, and he answered in the most sincere tone, “It’s all about obedience, my friend.” I learned that day it was all about listening, trust, and observing what the poem wanted to do. It takes a lot of trust to do that, but I have developed it over the years. Sometimes I still want to tell the poem what I want. But then the poem says, “That’s not working, I’m not doing that.” Truthfully, there is a lot that is still hard to say, especially about family and friends. I had difficulties when I was writing about my son‘s death in Mama Phife Represents . I ran some content by his wife, Deisha, and by his dad because I knew he was not just my baby. He belonged to them, too, and in a lot of ways, he also belonged to his whole Universe of music lovers… Wow, that was hard. Weeks before the book came out, I was worried and crying and breaking down, thinking I had given away too much of our lives. I learned later that most of it was grief. Grief is a hell of a demon. You are currently working on your eighth collection of poetry. What can you share about how that process is going? I wish I could share that it’s going swell, but it seems like every day I’m putting off the hard work of developing and documenting. This collection is on romance and erotica…one of my favorite topics. But I’m at a strange place in my twenty-eight-year relationship right now. I didn’t realize how hard writing about romance and love would be, so I find myself making a lot of notes but not diving full force into the text. I guess in ways, I’m waiting for the piece to write itself. That sounds strange, but sometimes it happens. I know I will wake up one morning and say to no one in particular, “I’m done fooling around, pass me my pen and paper.” What was your very first job? My very first serious job as a poet occurred when I returned to New York City from visiting Ghana, West Africa. It was my first trip to the continent of Africa, and I was blown away. I felt full, overflowing with poems, with joy, and with unbelievable feelings of loss for what I had witnessed there. I had seen the sadness and abuse that my people endured, and I had to rework that experience in my body somehow and make it palpable to share; thus began my first job.  I created an Art exhibit that consisted of poems and photos. The exhibit was then shown at CBGB’s rock and jazz club in the East Village of New York City, and at the Goddess Gallery in Fort Greene, Brooklyn, New York. I saw firsthand Goree Island and Elmina Castle, where free Africans were sold into slavery. The experience was overwhelming. The spirit of my ancestors descended upon me, and I knew that this writing gift was not just a hobby, and that I was blessed with real serious work. The universe had picked me, how lucky I was! What is one of your favorite memories of performing your work or someone else's? I have so many favorite memories of performing, but I will say one that stands out the most for me is my collaboration with Ronald K. Brown/ EVIDENCE, A Dance Company. The company is based in Brooklyn, New York. Their work is a mixed bag of African dance, modern dance, and Capoeira. We worked together for over 15 years. I wrote the text, and they would dance to it. I would be on stage performing my piece while they danced around me. One of our favorite pieces is entitled WATER, a poem I created to honor my son, Hip-Hop icon, Malik “Phife Dawg” Taylor, an original founding member of the seminal hip-hop group, A Tribe Called Quest. The poem is deeply spiritual and cultural, and lovingly honors the lives of Black men and boys. As the mother of a black man, I held so many fears inside, fear for his safety and survival. Yet at the same time, I had so much hope for my son and for black men everywhere.   I am most proud of that poem. Even now, so many years later, it gives me hope and joy. It will be relevant for years to come.  What do you love to do most when you visit Trinidad? When I am in Trinidad, I love to visit family more than anything else… to feel their hugs, to hear their stories in Trini dialect, to watch my favorite Tanty cook our national dishes. I also love to go to the river to listen to its language and relive childhood memories. Most important is to wrap myself in the joy of my family, which is always expanding. I also love to walk around the Green market listening to people’s conversation and salving myself with down-home stories in Trini Creole. Oh, how I love my people! How can people support you right now? You can pray for me, because even though I’ve come a long way, there are days when the loss of my beloved son Malik just overwhelms me and I need your light. I will also share what former New York State Poet Laureate Willie Perdomo said: Spend time with our youth, whatever gifts you have, share it with them, be it knitting, writing, poetry, playing chess, soccer, or riding a bike… find them wherever they are and give generously.  We have got to leave them some joy. Our world is very challenging now, and we have to lighten their way. Name another Black woman writer people should know.    Keisha-Gaye Anderson and Allia Abdullah-Matta. ### 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.