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Idza Luhumyo was born in Mombasa, Kenya. She studied law at the University of Nairobi, earned an MA in Comparative Literature at SOAS--University of London, and an MFA in Creative Writing from Texas State University.  Her writing has appeared in various publications, including Transition Magazine ,  African Arguments , the  Masters Review , and the  Porter House Review . Her short story, "Five Years Next Sunday," was awarded the 2021 Short Story Day Africa Prize and the 2022 Caine Prize for African Writing. Other awards include the Margaret Busby New Daughters of Africa Award and the Civitella Ranieri Writing Fellowship. She currently lives and works in Austin, TX. But That's a Long, Long Time Ago There's something calming about being stuck in an international airport, for hours, watching the world go by as you remain still, waiting to hear a voice call out your flight number. You're at peace, serene even, in spite of the uncomfortable seats on which you can only sleep in fits and starts. In spite of the dubious Wi-Fi that you know you shouldn't trust but to which you connect anyway. In spite of the fact that anytime you have to use the bathroom, you have to work out the complicated math of lining the toilet seat with tissue paper and then arranging yourself over it as you try to hold on to your carry-on luggage. You are on your way to a short story festival in Cork, the second-largest city in Ireland. You set out from San Marcos—the small, charming city in Central Texas that houses the Creative Writing program in which you are enrolled. You are taking this trip because, in a lucky sequence of events, which you suppose is how these things tend to go, a short story you wrote many years ago won a major prize. The journey to Cork is long, and it has been a long time coming. During the visa application process, you had to teach yourself how to trust American couriers with your passport and not think of the many ways everything could go very wrong. Once, things do in fact go wrong: when your passport with the visa stamp is returned, someone in the leasing office makes a mistake. Yes, it was delivered to the office, they say to you. But for the life of them, they cannot remember to what apartment they sent it. There is a moment there where you forget how to breathe. The person you are speaking to is chirpy and casual, typing away on the keyboard as she tells you, coolly, that your passport—this bright blue booklet of a document without which you cannot travel, or prove your right to be in the USA—is lost. Would you like to give it a day or so, she asks, see whether anything comes up? She is a sweetheart, really, the person saying these things to you, probably a Zoomer if her 90s-inspired outfit is anything to go by. She is the company's newest employee, one of those people who have a frantic aura about them: always rushing about, chewing fast, typing fast, talking fast, as if they had come to the world late, and were trying to play catch-up. Usually, when you come to the leasing office for your packages, you find her excitability charming, endearing. But as she finally looks away from her computer and tells you to go to your apartment and wait for your passport to magically appear, you pity her for the wrath you’re about to unleash. You tell her, in the quietest voice you can manage, that you will do no such thing. The clipped tone works: in less than an hour, your passport is found. # Cork is exactly how you expected an Irish city to be from the Irish novels you've previously devoured. Even though you've come to appreciate how big cities give you an anonymity that you disappear into, you're a small-town girl and find yourself charmed by how this rustic city seems to close in on itself, as if its buildings are huddling towards each other, keeping each other warm. Back home, in the artist circles in which you ran in your twenties, Ireland has always been looked on kindly because it shares with Kenya a brutal British colonial history. Your hosts are kind. Everything goes as planned: the taxi picking you from the airport; the drive through the rustic route to the hotel; the warm reception the next morning. At first, the restrained demeanour of the festival organizers is an adjustment: in the past year or so that you've been in America, you've gotten used to a certain fussiness, an outward friendliness that seems obligatory. But here, the pleasantness is at a remove, and people are more than happy to ease into silence when they run out of things to say. It is glorious. Maybe this is why you trust it. And even when the weather drops to single digits and you realize you didn't carry enough warm clothes, something inside of you thaws. # On the day of your reading, you stand in front of Irish writers and literary enthusiasts and read a story that pulls no punches in its critique of people who look like them. After your reading, there is applause. The sound of this prolonged applause will return to your mind when, months after the Cork trip, when back home in Nairobi for the Christmas break, someone at a literary gathering will remark that the African stories most likely to win literary prizes are those that criticize the very people who award them. But on that day, after you read your story, an elderly white woman walks up to you outside the auditorium and wraps you in a hug. You catch a whiff of Chanel No. 5 you usually scoff at, but which you start to like from then on. She calls you brave. Clutching your scarves and jackets, you walk down a cobbled path, and she tells you, a little haltingly, that she is a librarian and that she, too, is thinking of publishing some things she's jotted down throughout the years. She tells you that your bravery has inspired her to return to her writing. You hear yourself trotting out the writing advice you've heard throughout the years and which you, yourself, could use. You wonder what business you have offering writing advice to someone who's more than double your age and who, all her life, has worked with, and around, books. When you tell her you will be flying out in a couple of days, it is with a disappointed look that she bids you goodbye, but not before she points out, with barely-concealed urgency, the bookshops and coffee shops to visit before you leave. When you mention record shops, she points one out. Unbeknownst to her, the owner of the record shop is married to a Kenyan woman, and when you go down the stairs and tumble into this underground haven of sonic delight, you spend a lovely hour going on and on about 80s African music with someone whose enthusiasm belies the fact that he has never visited the continent. # Now that your reading is done, you allow yourself to have fun. You wonder if it's because your accent doesn't stand out as much, and that you spend as much time deciphering the Irish brogue as other writers try to understand your Kenyan English. You all have choice words about the British Empire, imperialism, the war in Ukraine. You redeem your drink tokens alongside the other writers and sit around a table and talk. In a corner of the room, a folk musician sits with a guitar, scoring the night with sparse chords about loneliness, lost love. You feel right at home in this famous brand of Irish sentimentality. A few writers sit away from the laughing group and brood. They sip and close their eyes. It's cold outside, but you're all sweating, taking off scarves and jackets and sweaters the more you laugh. You talk about writing rituals, Prince Charles III, Sally Rooney, Northern Ireland, Derry Girls, Trinity College, and, briefly, HBO's Succession when one of the writers is delighted you know how to pronounce Siobhan. You have your very first crush on a white man. Of course, he had to be Irish, your friend replies with a laughing emoji when you text her. # During mealtimes at the hotel, you’ve taken to looking for the tables that are tucked far away. You want to look at your phone and scroll away in chatter-free bliss. Some of the other writers, bless them, seem to notice and keep away, nodding and smiling every time your eyes meet. One morning at breakfast, you realize you've not spotted any other black person at the hotel. You feel guilty for only noticing this on the last day. But the guilt gives way to something like relief. Yes, you're the only black person at the hotel. Yes, you're the only black person at the festival. But contrary to how you often feel in America, you don't have the sensation of sticking out, you don't feel that a simple conversation will out you for being a different sort of black person altogether. # On the last day of the festival, after the first session of readings, you rush back to the hotel to grab dinner. The dining room is sparsely occupied, and most of the diners are elderly. The paneled walls and the perfectly set tables bring to mind a British pomposity that makes you smile. The time difference between Cork and Nairobi is only two hours. This makes it easier to keep up with Kenyan Twitter and Instagram in real time compared to when you're in America. You haven't been on social media all day. The idea is to find a table where you can scroll away in quiet bliss. You find one at the far end. You sit with your back to the room. The table has used utensils from the previous diners. On the top-right corner of the room, a TV shows a football game. Directly under the TV, a table with an elderly couple, sipping what appears to be the last of their drinks. You keep your head down, waiting for the maître d' to greet you and take your order. You've been lost in your phone for a while when you feel a shift in the air. You look over to the couple on your right. They keep sending looks towards you, and you keep looking back surreptitiously. At one point, you and the woman look at each other at the same time and send each other a smile. You are reassured. You return to your phone. Someone on your Instagram stories is giving a blow-by-blow account of a developing story about a Kenyan socialite. You're chuckling, you’re ignoring emails, you’re waiting to get dinner. After the reading, you hope you and the other writers will sample a little of the Cork nightlife. You even look forward to stealing a few moments with your crush. Your attention is drawn to your right again. Now, there are three: one of the waitresses has joined them. They are all facing your table. The waitress nods as the woman talks. On the older woman's face is a look you've seen often on your own mother's when she's giving someone a good scolding. You take out your earphones. The young woman—she couldn't be a day older than eighteen years—walks over to you, her cheeks flushed. You look over to the couple and they are shaking their heads, frowning. "Just unacceptable," the man says, still shaking his head. His voice attracts the attention of the other diners, and now looks are being directed towards you. The young woman, now appearing even younger than you'd thought her to be, starts to clear your table. You can feel the other diners' eyes. She is apologizing. Her eyes are watery. You feel a lump growing in your throat. You pinch the underside of your right arm, an old trick pilfered from a TV show, to forestall the tears you feel coming. You're not sure who you resent more: the restaurant staff who took too long to clear your table and get your order, or the elderly couple who pointed out the slight and turned you into a thing to be pitied. The waitress apologizes again. "Hey, it's okay," you hear yourself say. She nods rapidly, a smile on her face. Then, once she's stacked the utensils on her arms, she asks in a chirpy voice: "Did one of us seat you here?" The shift from the teary eyes to chirpiness is remarkable. "No," you say to her, haltingly. "I just came and sat here."  "I'm really sorry, I didn't see you, you had your back turned..." You tell her it's completely okay. That you only sat there because you wanted some privacy. It turns out you'd been waiting for half an hour. She takes your order. Your drink comes soon after she leaves. And then a couple of minutes after that, another server rushes to you with your plate of salmon, mashed potatoes, and a few celery sticks. You avoid looking at the couple on your right. You down the drink and then tackle the fish. The server returns to ask how you're finding the meal. You have about twenty minutes before the reading, so you ask for a cocktail. As you wait, the couple gets up. They walk to your table. "You had been waiting for too long on a dirty table," the woman says, as if you had only just come to the scene yourself. "We just couldn't sit there and watch that happen to you." You nod and smile, wishing that you had your cocktail already. Then the man, in a quiet conversational tone, tells you that they are English tourists. That he had long known of his Irish ancestry and that they were finally taking this trip to see some of his ancestors' burial grounds. This moves you. You feel bad about being previously annoyed. "And where are you from?" the woman asks you.  "Kenya,” you say. "Oh," she exclaims, clutching her husband's arm. She starts to laugh. "She grew up in Kenya," the man explains, chuckling.  The woman shakes her head slowly, as if she can’t believe the sheer coincidence of it all. "But that's before we got married," the man continues, taking on the role of his wife's interpreter. "She's still got some family there. Her father was sent there as an administrator with the British government. The 40s, it may have been? But that's a long, long time ago, I'm sure you were not born." "Oh no," you say, chuckling. "Kenya wasn't even a country then." He's laughing. You're laughing. You're all laughing. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the waitress from before, going to the kitchen with a stack of plates on her arm. You get up from the table. You've decided to give up on the cocktail. In a single file, the three of you walk to the cashier. And there you all stand, waiting to settle your bills. ### 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.

Nina Oteria is a poet, artist, and former educator from Raleigh, North Carolina. Her poetry has been published in Southern Cultures , Apogee ,  Scalawag Magazine , and elsewhere. She performs in Durham, Raleigh, and Chapel Hill based poetry reading series'. Nina was a featured performer at NC State’s Gregg Museum of Art and Design. She is one of the founding poets of the Corcoran Poetry Wall mural installation in Durham, NC. Nina uses poetry and art as a means to heal herself and her community, upholding the Black storytelling tradition. Nina’s co-written manuscript, A Matter of Radical Pushback: Political TheoPoetics of the Black Imagination , is forthcoming from Wipf and Stock Publishers. Nina’s chapters in this manuscript illuminate the importance of “slow theology” for Black artists and teachers, combining poetry, academic writing, and theology, and describing artmaking as a spiritual practice. Nina holds an MFA in Writing from Pratt Institute and a BA in Religious Studies from Wake Forest University. Nina facilitates Sweetgum Workshop, a healing and creative arts ministry. She is a former English and Creative Writing teacher at Raleigh Charter High School. Numerical “We’re spending life loving it exclusively because we couldn’t change the world.” Etel Adnan sea and fog 6. A car is a function of capitalism. We must move faster so that numbers may circulate. Money isn’t real, it's a flow of characters on screens. But if you ignore the numbers, the police will soon show up at your door. 2. The blue evening touches me on Sunday. I’m thinking about blue things before I get in my car tomorrow and ride as fast as a certain number to get to my desk at another number then pay close attention to the numbers on the small, inaccurate moon bound to my right wrist. (I put away the number screen because it makes me dizzy.) 5. I ask God about time. God points to the moon, to the sunrise and 300 starlings snatching my frosty breath from my throat as they fly. I ask God about time and God says my veins are blue. God won’t tell me how many veins I have, even though I ask. Numbers are most important to everyone except God. 3. You can’t have any food or medicine unless you first pledge allegiance to imaginary numbers. I wanted to have imaginary friends when I was younger; I kept forgetting to imagine them. I was given a blue betta fish instead. I took care of his small body. My Dad kept his tank clean and he lived long for someone completely alone and in captivity. When he died I was jumping rope. 1. Sunday morning I woke up to a minor tornado. Recently I dreamed of a cheetah and my childhood cheetah print backpack, never tempted to count the spots. In the tornado I felt irritated at a man and I thought it was true. I realized I was just tired. My body fluctuates within the month’s numbers, the month’s numbers which stay the same. In the dream the cheetah looked at me intently, not skittish, as if it wanted to tell me something. Throughout the day I wonder what numbers are on the screens when I can’t see them. 8. I ask my body for information on what is happening around me apart from my senses. My body says, “What’s the point? All you listen to is numbers. You’re my imaginary friend. You’re my pet rock.” I don’t know how to respond to that so I check the time, the number in the blue dusk. 3 more hours till I pull the plug on my body’s ruminations. I can’t understand most of her poetry. 9. I ask God about poetry and God says veins, the ocean, the dirt (meaning earth). The blue evening of the world’s very first day. In prayer I am under all those layers. Numbers come apart at their angles like chairs with broken legs. God winks and I start to laugh uncontrollably. When I open my eyes I see my 1st gray hair in the mirror. Numbers are distracting. I walk towards the car so that I may begin to circulate like change. It takes focus to see what’s real in this rain. 4. The academy whipped me up into a frenzy of negativity, a cloud of numbers, a hailstorm of signifiers used to make the same general proposition. Now I am moving from blue’s opposite into blue. My veins decrease/increase their circulation. I am in no hurry. I don’t want to talk to anymore number people because there are still many questions I have to ask God. God always makes me laugh even in the midst of captivity, tornadoes, and my brain, my pet rock. 7. Money is a car. The self a character on a screen, a small inaccurate moon. I am a wing in no hurry. Numbers, when rotated, dissected, and collaged, resemble the flowers of poetry, which are the meanings of sunlight and blueness. This is not just my opinion, this is really what God told me. So all is not lost. ### 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.

Fabienne Josaphat is the author of the novel  Kingdom of No Tomorrow (Algonquin), winner of the 2023 PEN Bellwether Prize for Socially Engaged Fiction. photo by Pedro Wazzan Fabienne Josaphat is the author of the novel  Kingdom of No Tomorrow (Algonquin), winner of the 2023 PEN Bellwether Prize for Socially Engaged Fiction, and longlisted for the 2025 Aspen Words Literary Prize. The New York Times calls it "Muscular, searing . .  . a novel for our times." Pulitzer-Prize winner Barbara Kingsolver says, "Kingdom of No Tomorrow will bring the fierce vision of the Black Panthers to new generations of readers, adding some stunning context to the modern Black Lives Matter movement." Of her first novel,  Dancing in the Baron’s Shadow , Edwidge Danticat said, “it is an irresistible read about the nature of good and evil, terror and injustice, and ultimately triumph and love.” In addition to fiction, Josaphat writes non-fiction and poetry, as well as screenplays. Her work has been featured in The African American Review , The Washington Post , Teen Vogue , The Master’s Review , The Caribbean Writer , Grist Journal, and more.  Kingdom of No Tomorrow (an excerpt) Michael Haywood was in his room, sitting up in bed. He looked frail. Beyond the yellow tint in his eyes and skin, Nettie saw the glow of brown eyes, and a face that would light up any midnight sky when it wasn’t contorting in pain. “Sometimes, I feel alright,” he muttered. “I do my chores, I go to school. But sometimes, I feel like I can’t breathe.” “Do you feel pain sometimes?” Nettie asked. “In your extremities? Fingers? Toes?” “Yes ma’am,” the boy said. “It’s how we knew I was sick.” Nettie sat on the edge of his bed. Mrs. Haywood stood by the door, watching. The room was dark, too, and Nettie was thankful for the table lamp that glowed enough to let her see what she was writing, checking off boxes. Michael had gotten screened with Dr. Johnson, who had immediately referred him to a hematologist. He was on medication, but lately, it wasn’t helping. Mrs. Haywood lowered her voice as if she didn’t want Michael to hear. “Since Charles died—my husband—things just became more difficult, financially. Hematologists are expensive . . .” Nettie could feel her eyes on her, perhaps trying to read her notes. “Do you know what a blood transfusion goes for at the hospital? You seem so young.” The orange glow from the table lamp illuminated Nettie’s face, and she felt her cheeks heat up. Mrs. Haywood was scrutinizing her features, judging her. Would her actual age diminish her authority here? Did this mean she couldn’t work or help in any way? She was prepared to argue for herself, she supposed. She’d had to argue this with her aunt many times. Tante Mado always pleaded that a pretty girl like her should always work her charms to get what she wanted. “You have the bone structure of a goddess,” Tante Mado would say, holding her face up in the light to see her angles. “You look like your mother. You could pose for magazines, you know.” No, this would not do. This, what she was doing here, tucking her pen and clipboard away, this had more meaning. If she couldn’t do this, then what point was there in even living? “How old are you?” Mrs. Haywood asked. Nettie looked in her eyes and smiled. “Twenty.” “That’s too young to be a doctor.” Nettie explained that she wasn’t yet, that this was basic practice. Nettie and Clia visited families in housing developments, apartments, and mostly projects in the flats bearing the names of their developers in the inner arteries of Oakland. All the apartments were the more or less same in layout and in squalor. In one home, Nettie was forced to sit in a corner of the kitchen with her feet up to avoid mice from running over her. She quickly learned the price of poverty here in Oakland, and in America, by observing in each of those visits the lack of nutrition in sick patients’ diets, the water that ran rust red from the tap, the small roaches crawling up the cupboards. How could people be expected to respond to treatment or heal, even, when they didn’t have any real food in their refrigerator? It puzzled her that this was passing as acceptable in a country so rich and plentiful. It felt absurd, as if somehow the poor were not deserving. There was a lie here, a lie between the fabric of the two worlds. It didn’t sit right. “Still, it gives me hope that you’re here. Sometimes I think about the world out there and how much it is all burning up in brimstone and fire, and sure enough, it’s always the young people like you who make me believe . . .” They walked out of Michael’s room and closed the door. The hallway was quiet enough that Nettie could hear every creak of wooden planks beneath her feet. Michael needed transfusions, and it enraged her that money was what stood in the way, but she clenched her jaw. What could she do about that? “I will talk to Dr. Johnson about it,” Nettie said. “You’re not alone, Mrs. Haywood.” Violet was sitting on the stairs with her doll between her legs. She was pretending to brush and comb her hair. Nettie smiled as they walked past her, but again, Violet didn’t return the smile. No one in this house truly laughed, Nettie thought. It hurt to see such dreariness in children. Clia was in the living room working on her report but put her pen down when Nettie walked in. “How is he?” Clia asked. “He is in pain,” Nettie said. “Medicated, but he may need a transfusion.” Clia went to the window and stared out through the glass panes. The afternoon was drawing to an end, but the sky was still illuminated. There was no wind, and the palm trees were still, as if etched permanently against the sky. “We can discuss later,” Clia said, cutting her off. “Someone is here.” There was a man coming up the driveway on foot. Nettie and Mrs. Haywood had gone to the window to see who it was. “Can I get the door, Mrs. Haywood? This is the man who came to help.” Mrs. Haywood hesitated. “Help? How do you mean?” “Let me introduce you to him,” Clia said. “You can decide for yourself if you want his help or not. I think you will.” There was a knock at the door. Nettie stood next to Mrs. Haywood, her palms clammy. She cast a glance up the stairs. Violet was still sitting there, her eyes fixed on the entrance. Clia was talking to the visitor, the door open, and they could only hear his voice, a low baritone, smooth, whispering to Clia before she whispered back. “Please come in . . .” Clia stepped into the living room, a tall figure trailing behind her. Nettie watched him stand there in a military stance, shoulders squared, feet planted firmly on the ground. Suddenly, everything took a more distinct shape before her eyes. She understood. The man looked at each of them in the eye. He looked to be no older than twenty-five. And what distressed her the most was how handsome he was. It wasn’t something in the face, but it was in the way he carried himself. There was authority in his step and in his voice, and Nettie studied his clothes. They were impeccable. He was wearing slacks, and a buttoned-up shirt, and a black bomber jacket in black leather. His shoes were shiny, like his hair, which was thick and black, like a plume of smoke, and it served as the perfect perch for a magnificent black beret, cocked to the right. “This here is my comrade, Melvin,” Clia said. “We’re in the same cadre. This is Mrs. Haywood, this is her house. And this here is my Sista Nettie.” Sista . This was what had sparked the fire between them. The word sista  had lured Nettie into the basements of the college, and the study halls, in meetings with members of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee and the Congress for Racial Equality. That word had bonded the two over class projects, visits to each other’s homes, and soon Clia was helping Nettie obtain a job in the same clinic where she worked. Clia was a sista to her, but obviously to so many others who knew to show up when she called. When Melvin nodded toward her, Nettie understood that this was who Clia had called. One of those brothas. A militant. Someone who didn’t come here to play games. Melvin reached out and shook Mrs. Haywood’s hand. He set something down on the sofa, a large black duffel bag Nettie hadn’t noticed before. Clia explained what Mrs. Haywood told them, and then finally Mrs. Haywood cleared her throat and went on about everything. About moving into the house two years ago, about the harassment that ensued. They were the only Black family on the block. They weren’t wanted. The homeowner’s association left her out of meetings and correspondence, at first, but lately, things had escalated to vandalism, threats in her mailbox. As she talked, Melvin moved around the living room. He peeked through windows, observed where the projectile had been thrown into her window. He looked out the kitchen windows, too, ascertaining their surroundings. The more she studied him, the older he seemed to her. She noticed a mustache over his upper lip and the sideburns to match, gracefully hugging his jawline. When he moved past her to go to another window, she smelled his fragrance and it was pure soap and leather. “I already talked to the police about this,” Mrs. Haywood said, suddenly exhausted. “They said it was just kids . . .” Melvin nodded. This time, he relaxed his stance and proceeded to remove what Nettie hadn’t noticed before. Gloves. It wasn’t cold out there, but she surmised he wore driving gloves, and it added a certain flair to his look. “At first, it was always at night . . . It’s always people who seem to live here; some of them are on the neighborhood association board. Now they come in larger numbers, in broad daylight, in the front of the house, in the back, throwing things into the yard, yelling things at us, like . . .” Mrs. Haywood stumbled, looking for words. Melvin waited for her to finish, but she suddenly looked into his eyes and they stared at each other quietly until he joined his hands behind his back. “Got tired of calling the police after a while,” she said. “They don’t give a damn. Don’t even come when you call, and when you don’t call they come and tell you to make things easier on yourself, and just move out—” Melvin stepped away again and this time paused by the piano, looking at the photographs on the top board. In one large frame, a veiled Mrs. Haywood clung to the arm of a handsome man with a mustache, in a white suit and bowtie, both of them cutting into a white cake. He glanced at Mrs. Haywood over his shoulder. “You call pigs to your home and they won’t come, because they’re too busy throwing bricks through your window.” Mrs. Haywood froze as Melvin moved a small figurine on top of the piano, pushing it away from the edge as if to protect it from falling. “It’s just a tactic, is what that is,” he said. “No different from the Klan.” “You sure know a lot about tactics . . .” Nettie was thinking the same thing as Mrs. Haywood appraised Melvin. “Where do you come from?” “Chicago,” Melvin said. “But I volunteered down in Jackson, Miss. Freedom rides.” Nettie watched Mrs. Haywood breathe in and finally surrender with a sigh. She saw the woman’s eyes go to the piano and the bench, where the glass had probably shattered, and her daughter probably cried, the sharp notes breaking the peace of this house. “Well? What do you think we should do?” “I have to report back to headquarters,” Melvin said. “Let them decide how to—” “I already did that,” Clia said. “They sent you.” “I dig it.” He looked at Clia directly in the eyes, visibly unpleased with the interruption. “All the same, we have rules. We’ll need backup.” “Why can’t you just sit tight here yourself?” Clia shouted. “And why call for backup when we’re standing right here?” Nettie leaned in to Clia, hoping to catch her attention and remind her she didn’t want to be involved. Especially if there was a potential for violence. But Clia was already balling her fists. “I mean, you can trust a woman to handle a gun, can’t you, Brother?” The way she emphasized “Brother” made Melvin square his shoulders, squint his eyes in annoyance. “Are you carrying?” Melvin asked. “If I did, I wouldn’t call you for backup,” Clia said. Nettie had never met a woman as bold and strong as Clia. “I don’t have time for jive.” Melvin sucked his teeth and turned to Mrs. Haywood. “Where’s your phone, Mrs. Haywood?” “Why don’t you give me one and see how I handle myself?” Clia said, her head bobbing defiantly. “Or are you just—” Something crashed against the window. Mrs. Haywood let out a yelp, but it was the sharp scream of a child that jolted Nettie out of her skin. Violet was still on that step upstairs, shrieking. Glass shattered again, the sound this time coming from the back window. “The hell?” Clia muttered, finding Nettie’s hand and squeezing it. Mrs. Haywood ran upstairs to the children, her footsteps heavy. She was muttering something inaudible; Nettie thought a prayer. Only Melvin stood there in the shadows of the living room, unflinching. Outside, there was a revving of engines. Nettie instinctively retreated with Clia against a wall, her heart pounding. She wanted to plug her ears, make the rumble and the shouting vanish. There were voices rising now above the roar of car engines, clearly shouting intolerable obscenities. “We told you to get out of our neighborhood! We don’t want your kind around here!” Clia cursed under her breath, and Nettie held hers. Her eyes were fixed on Melvin, his silhouette moving in slow motion toward the window. He lifted a corner of the curtain, peeked outside. “Watch out!” Mrs. Haywood hollered. They were throwing projectiles at the house now, screaming and shouting, and Clia’s nails dug into Nettie’s arm, pulling her closer as if to hold her, protect her. Nettie watched Melvin come away from the window with disconcerting calm. He went to the couch and unzipped the black duffel bag, reached inside. An electrical surge ran through her as he pulled out the barrel of what she recognized, in the darkness, as a shotgun, fully assembled. Something flew in through the window and crashed against the photographs on the piano. They fell, more glass shattering, revealing Mrs. Haywood’s younger self grinning next to her husband as they sliced their wedding cake. Nettie’s blood boiled as she saw a large rock dent the shiny surface of the piano. Something inside her snapped. She reached for the rock without a thought, cupped it in her own palm as she launched it like a grenade out the window, hoping to hurt whoever threw it in the first place. Still, she didn’t throw it far out enough. Melvin pumped the shotgun once. The click sent a chill down Nettie’s spine, but she suddenly realized the sight of the weapon made her less afraid. Something about its presence, the assurance of its effectiveness, as well as Melvin’s proximity, made her hopeful. He pulled out a handgun from his jacket and walked over to them and looked at Clia, and then Nettie. Then, at Clia again. Clia quickly took the pistol from him, inspected the chamber. It was fully loaded. She cocked it. “You watch the back door,” Melvin said. “Any motherfucker comes busting through it, you shoot’em dead, you dig? Don’t ask questions. Just kill’em.” “Right on,” Clia nodded, gleeful. Nettie hadn’t seen this look on her face before, and she wasn’t sure if Clia was happy at the thought of killing or at the idea that someone, finally, had stepped up to take care of a problem. Clia inched toward the doorway to the kitchen and stood there at attention. Nettie watched Melvin again, his hand reaching for the front door handle, without hesitation. Something in the way he moved was captivating, a lack of fear as he opened the door and slid out into the shadows. Nettie went to the door. Mrs. Haywood was shouting in the background. She could hear her. “For God’s sake, chile, close that door!” But she needed to see. The sky was the color of a bruise. Purple and blue, sunlight just an afterthought as night drew in, and she watched Melvin’s silhouette move down the front steps as if the hailstorm of bottles and rocks pelting in his direction were nonexistent. She mouthed for him to be careful, but he couldn’t hear her. He stopped halfway down the driveway. She waited for him to say something. Anything. Instead, Melvin raised his weapon at hip level. There was no way to see very well in the dark, but that didn’t matter. She knew there was no need to aim. There was a car standing in front of the gate, engine revving, and she knew what he needed to do. And he did. The detonation was more of an explosion. It tore through the night like thunder, and Nettie’s first instinct was to cover her ears. But she stood still, eyes glazed over. For a moment, she wasn’t here in Mrs. Haywood’s house, but in Haiti. Home. Back outside, where the dust rose and the saline smell of the surrounding marshes clung to the air, and her father’s silhouette stood beside her, also pulling the trigger to demonstrate self-defense. The screaming brought her back to the present. Voices shouted in the dark. Melvin’s silhouette moved forward quickly, stealthily. He pointed the weapon at the sky this time and fired another round, and another, until all Nettie could see was the faint plumes of gunpowder smoking the air and lights shutting off at neighbors’ windows. The voices that had been yelling were now shouting differently. “Shit! Go! Go! They got guns!” Then, there was a rendering of metal and the car took off in an awful sound, tires screeching, its blown off bumper scraping the asphalt. In the surrounding neighborhood, there was screaming, and dogs barked furiously. The neighbor’s dog ran to the fence, just yards away from Melvin, growling. Melvin jumped, and on instinct, he pointed his weapon toward the dog. Not the dog! What did dogs know, other than to bark? The thing hadn’t hurt anyone. She thought Melvin would shoot and she braced herself but she heard nothing. Not a sound but the barking and growling. Melvin was standing just a foot away from her now on the front steps, staring at her. Nettie dropped her hands and felt her face burn. Melvin moved closer into the porch light. She saw a thin layer of sweat on his brow. She caught her breath as he looked in her eyes. They stood there for a brief instant, and she thought he would ask if she was okay, but he didn’t. Instead, he inched even closer to her until she picked up the spicy scent of sweat on him, adrenaline rushing from his pores, and she knew he wanted to get back inside. So, she let him in, and he closed the door behind them. Excerpted from KINGDOM OF NO TOMORROW by Fabienne Josaphat. Used by permission of  Algonquin Books, a division of Hachette Book Group. THE INTERVIEW This interview was conducted between Fabienne Josaphat and Jae Nichelle on December 26, 2025. Thank you for sharing this thrilling excerpt of Kingdom of No Tomorrow . When you began developing the idea for this novel, what was the first thing you knew about your main character, Nettie? I knew Nettie was a survivor of trauma, but she wasn’t defined by it enough to let it stop her. I knew she was going to grow. In my mind, this was a coming-of-age story, even if everything happens quickly in the span of two years, more or less. A lot can happen within that time to change a person, and I knew she was going to be the brave, daring woman I could never be.  What is your definition of literary success? How has it changed over the years as you’ve published more and received some incredible awards? I think success traditionally is measured by the accolades and awards and reviews an author receives, so it’s nice to be acknowledged in that way. But to me, especially with this novel, the definition of success is the conversations it sparks, the passion it ignites, especially in the younger generation, and the number of people who are burning with questions about this period. That’s what changed over the years for me, the need to share and educate with the purpose of awakening the reader to more than just an entertaining story, but to the very core of why I tell the story. It’s like the Black Panther Party slogan said, “Educate to Liberate.” I see my writing leaning into education in some aspects, and this to me is also the measure of my literary success. In your Pen Ten Interview , you said you love how fiction “forces the reader to feel .” What books have made you feel in the past few months? I think of a lovely novel that surprised me, The Death of Comrade President  by Alain Mabanckou. It made me feel delight and amusement and despair all at once, which was new to me. I didn’t know I could experience all this at the same time. Plus, it took me into unknown territory: Congo-Brazzavile in 1970s, so I was able to navigate nostalgia and tap into the pride and the fear of the moment as the characters experience political and social upheaval. Percival Everett’s James also made me feel like I was there, on the plantation, on the river, running for my life, running toward my family, and experiencing all the perils and risks of an enslaved character in the South. I would love to hear more about your screenwriting! What first drew you to this mode of storytelling, and what has your journey been like with your scripts? This started out in college during my undergrad. I took a creative writing class where we had to learn to write screenplays, and I was so taken by the process that I wrote a spec script for a popular TV Show just as a test. And I did well enough that my professor noticed. Then, later on, my first novel started as a screenplay – it was my way of telling the story in a fast-paced, cinematic way, and I realized that could be the bones of a novel. Screenplays and treatments are fun for me; I find them thrilling! I’d love to see myself write more screenplays. What led you to start your Substack newsletter of craft lessons and advice for writers? What’s a craft topic you could talk about for hours? The Substack is a weird mix of everything, really. It’s a bit of craft, a bit of storytelling, a bit of deep thinking. I do like to share craft and advice, though, because I realize it’s why people take the time to read an online newsletter: they want to know what’s on your mind, what you’ve been working on, and they want you to bring them value, teach them, or tell them something surprising. So craft is that value for me. And I could talk about plot forever. It’s the least explored element of fiction; it’s not at all what people usually think it is, and it gives me joy to help others make that distinction between story and plot. As a creative writing instructor and mentor, do you find that working with emerging writers influences your own creative process? That has varied. Some of my mentees and students take writing very seriously, almost like it’s a mechanical task that has to be planned out down to the exact number of days or hours spent on a subject. I have learned from them to give myself more permission to be creative and less rigid. And then there are students and mentees who approach writing almost as a spiritual journey, and from them I’ve learned to open myself up spiritually as well. It’s been a fascinating experience in that way: teaching and mentoring end up being a mutual growth journey. What are you looking forward to? Either personally or professionally, something small or something big! At the moment, I’m looking forward to finishing the draft of my next book - a sequel to Kingdom of No Tomorrow . I’d like to get to the finish line so that I can jump into the next project. How can people support you right now? I appreciate reviews after my readers are done reading. Writers need those. The second thing writers like me need is time and space to write (writer residencies or retreats are ideal). And of course, it helps to grow a writer’s following – I write on Substack, and growing my readership is something I’m working on.  Name another Black woman writer people should know.  One of my literary heroes is the illustrious Maryse Condé from Guadeloupe, who left us last year. Her narrative voice and her body of work, centering Black voices and Black women like her seminal novel I, Tituba, Black Witch of Salem , should be required reading. And because I feel she should be or already is well known, I’ll throw in another: Yanick Lahens, the award-winning Haitian author who is also translated into English. We should all read her and let her prose transform us. ### 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.

Mofiyinfoluwa O. is a Nigerian writer living between Lagos and London. Her work is concerned with the interior of African|Black womanhood. She is a graduate of the Iowa Nonfiction Writing Program and The Founder of The Abebi AfroNonfiction Foundation. Her work has appeared in Guernica , Black Warrior Review , Variant Lit , Pleiades , Ploughshares, and elsewhere. Her work has been selected as a Best American Essay Notable Entry (2022) and nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She is currently at work on her debut memoir interrogating the body, soul, spirit, and their relationship with desire. Victoria Island Blues We have always known that the land bears witness. That it watches. A thing does not need to have eyes to see. We are an expanse of land in the heart of Victoria Island; 2.7 acres of lush sprawling greenery, only a leap from Ozumba Mbadiwe Avenue, only a leap from the mouth of the ocean. We have a thousand tiny corners where many dangerous and beautiful things happen. Muri Okunola Park is what they call us, but we know that we are more than just a park, more than green grass trampled underneath eager feet, more than just a place. Even then. A place can behold the clumsy knees of a teenage girl become the sturdy legs of a woman. A place can remain unchanged – dark green bars forming an iron fence, pillars of marble scattered across the field, a black gate that holds many secrets – as it watches a young girl transform every single time she sets foot on the body of our premises. There is no way to tell the story of M becoming a woman in Lagos without mentioning us. Long before the tendrils of womanhood even find her, we see her. It is a rare and beautiful thing to bear witness to the unfurling of a flower – to watch tentative petals reveal themselves in glorious splendor. And what is a glorious tale if it is not told? What is the use of all that beauty, all that danger, all that rage, if we keep it to ourselves?   6th August 2016.  The first time she sets foot on these grounds, M. is a seventeen-year-old girl desperate to be desired. You couldn’t see it, though. Unless you looked beyond her carefully manufactured confidence, her stellar grades, her mouth always moving, always distracting, always performing. But if you looked past all that, past the white off shoulder top she chose to wear that day for its ability to hide her entire midriff, past the funny-looking eyebrows she took hours to pencil in and conceal, past the constant fidgeting to make sure she looked fine – you would only see a young darkskinned girl attending a music festival. Lucid Lemons – the hottest hub for young creatives – is hosting a live show for alté musicians, and her sister, ear to the ground on the scene, had told her to be there. Just a few weeks ago, the tailor she met on the scene of her filmmaker cousin’s movie made her a pair of ankara shorts. Red flowers, yellow circles with splotches of white. The perfect fit to show some thigh whilst being high-waisted enough to keep her belly (oh the great belly) out of sight. That day, she is in the midst of a very delicate equation she is trying to balance: how to hide herself, whilst still showing enough skin to draw boys’ eyes, to make them see that although she is fat, although the inside of her thighs are almost black with the heat of constant friction, although she is terrible at makeup, she is still beautiful, still deserving of their eyes, their mouths, their hands. Still, she dances. With her feet in dainty white sandals in the late August air, she sways. Only a few weeks ago, she graduated from Olashore International School, and in the next few weeks she is off to Durham University in the cold cold North of England to study law. Oh, how she dreams of being a lawyer. All those blazers hiding her fat, flabby arms. All those long-sleeved shirts to conceal shoulders. All that brilliance she will radiate. She is certain, unshakably resolved to be a lawyer. And she has the brains for it. Her WAEC results are out any day now and she cannot wait for the rush of validation. Yes, there may be no boys who find her attractive enough to come and say hello, but the litany of As littering her report card will warrant the praise of her family, her teachers, and all her friends. Her iPhone 6 buzzes in her little white purse. Her English teacher, Mrs Emezue, is calling. Slightly confused, she picks up her phone, and a frantic, excited voice blares through the speakers ‘ Fiyin! Fiyin! WAEC results are out! Send me your details now! Let me check for you .' Squealing and jumping, the girl reels off the registration number she had memorized waiting for this exact moment. With bated breath, she waits as her teacher fishes out the results. A few minutes pass, and Mrs Emezue begins to scream with joy: ‘ My girl! My girl! My girl! All As and only one B (of course, she had a B in math) ! You did it! All As and one B!’  Her face cracks into a smile so big, it battles the setting sun for radiance. We see her then, realizing her own power, forgetting the boys for a moment, utterly pleased with herself. The sun will set, and Odunsi The Engine will croon ‘you’re my desire, gone around the world just to find her, omoge wa gbe mi saya’  and she will sing out those lyrics with reckless abandon – her voice lifting towards the heavens like smokefire, the voice of a girl trying so very hard to be enough for herself.    24th December 2017. Her skirt is short, so short that her thighs sparkle in their nakedness under the starless Lagos night. The skirt – faux leather embroidered with small red, green, and blue flowers – was bought with her mother in the New Look on Oxford Street nine months ago when she turned eighteen. An adult. And her body is starting to show it. The skin of her thighs is rubbed down with whipped shea butter and coconut oil, gleaming with a vengeance, pollen waiting for the touch of bees. Her top is deep red, baring her shoulders with waterfall sleeves that ripple in the evening breeze. An airy, round, perfect afro crowns her head steadfastly, and a velvet choker, encrusted with many silver hearts sparkling one to another – much like choreographed constellations – wraps the expanse of her neck. Gone is that shy and fidgeting girl of many moons ago. This is the M that has come into the knowledge of her beauty. She has spent the last many months shopping for clothes that fit her frame, shedding all that deadweight of insecurity, standing in front of her camera day after day, photograph after photograph, teaching her brain to look at her body and call it beautiful. If you check her camera roll, you will find many nude pictures, mostly in black and white; she has been cartographing the expanse of her body, rolls of flesh, a sprawling belly, stretch marks across the entire width of her back. She has studied her body like ancient scripture. Her endeavors have been fruitful. So fruitful, in fact, that in the months that have passed since we last saw her, she has obtained a lover that she obsesses over in a near-feral manner. He is sitting beside her now on the raffia mats spread across the park, the smell of chicken barbecue and burning herb dancing through the air as Bez is stringing a guitar and crooning seductively; his voice traveling over them in enchanting waves. In that moment, her gloss-coated lips spill open with laughter, time and time again, as the hands of the clock move nearer and nearer to midnight. No call from her mother. The freedom is delicious. And she is feasting fat on every single bite. D, beside her, reaches out to cover her shoulder with his arm and she lets him, lets herself feel the weight of a man settle on her, and she decides she likes it. On those mats, she is a budding flower unaware of just how bright her bloom will be.  28th of December 2019. Her belly is full of gin when she arrives at our gates. Beefeater to be exact. Straight from the bottle, no mixer, no chaser. No, she’s the one being chased tonight – those wide hips encased in deep red, the smooth brown of her shoulders bared to the night sky, lips a pulsing red sea perfect for drowning. Just a few minutes ago, she was at a wedding where men were tripping over themselves to get her phone number as she weaves and bobs between them with the ease of a woman who now knows how to handle men. The Uber ride from Elegushi to Victoria Island is only fifteen minutes, and in that time, she peels herself out of a sinfully tight black dress into an equally (if not more) sinfully tight red jumpsuit. She surprises herself with how deft she has become at navigating this city, this big and blooming life. Maybe there is  something about heartbreak that sharpens a woman’s senses. She would know. Five months ago, D said he could no longer love her. And she wept. Worried herself sick with errant thoughts of insufficiency. Wept some more. And then one day, tired of wallowing, she reached out to a man and swallowed him whole, and the tears ceased. Discovering this formula, the girl has developed a ravenous appetite for dick and alcohol (both in surplus in Lagos every December), perfected the calibration, and when she sets her feet on Muri Okunola Park that night, she is ready. Red, blue, and pink lights strobe from every corner of the park, and the air is thick with the sweat of bodies, the heady scent of too many joints burning at the same time, and music so loud it reverberates through her entire body as she meanders her way to the front of the stage where Show Dem Camp is booming their music. When Tec calls out to the audience for girls who are ready to come dance on stage, she does not hesitate. The security man hoists her up like she doesn’t weigh 95kg, and in that moment, she feels light as air as her gold-sandaled feet land on the stage. Her eyes are lined with laali, auburn and blond braids piled in the perfect ponytail. The bass is jumping and she begins to whine her waist, hips brushing from side to side, arms lifted in bliss as that jumpsuit cleaves to every inch of her body, its thin straps digging into the flesh of her shoulders as the fabric strains to contain the euphoria pouring from her. She sways from side to side, running her hands along the grooves of her belly, sticking her tongue out, grinning endlessly as she is being carried by the music to a very magical place. The energy is galactic, hundreds of bodies vibrating and chanting lyrics backed by the most electric live band as the stage is beamed in seething rays of red and blue and pink. There she is in this galaxy, entirely untethered, sensual and free - a woman who is dancing like she knows exactly what her body can do. If you look closely, you will see the back of the jumpsuit rides low enough to reveal the rolls of flesh she once desperately kept hidden. Now, she does not give a fuck. In that moment, nothing matters, not even the useless lair she wants so desperately to fuck, the one who has called her phone seven times now, not even him. She is ascendant, moving with the air, moving the body she taught herself to love, moving it with ease and gladness. On that stage, in front of all those people, in front of us, underneath the starless Lagos night, M. celebrates herself, and what we see is a woman ready to feast on herself, knowing she will be satisfied.  24th December 2021. They are both drenched in sweat when we see them, and god are they a sight to behold. He; head full of hair, a pink floral shirt with one too many buttons undone, a silver necklace shimmering in the darkness of night, and black jeans so tight, they could be another layer of skin. She – our girlwomanmagicbeing – is clad in an emerald green bralette, complete with ropes that criss-cross the skin between her breasts, free and unbound with nipples peeking to greet the night air. Her burgundy trousers, tight at the waist and flared towards her feet, have slipped much lower than their initial placement to reveal her waistbeads – all ten of them; red, gold, blue, and bronze, glittering and seductive in the midnight hue. It is another December and another Show Dem Camp concert, but this time she is not on stage. This time she is in the arms of a lover who sees her entirely, a lover her body calls siren-like, and he answers every single time. Their faces are split in these ethereal smiles as they exchange a tiny gold flask between themselves. No one else knows, but just before they arrived here, in a small hotel room off Ozumba, they split a heart-shaped pill into two, each person slipping their half into heated mouths chased with cold Orijin. It hit in the middle of the show. Rays of heat deep from the core of their bodies began to radiate outwards, a kind of cosmic energy beaming from within. Now, the girl is chanting lyrics, engaged in a full-blown rap battle of one: CHOP LIFE CREW, JAIYE TIMES TWO, AFTER ROUND ONE, SHE WANT TATOO. The words tumble from her mouth with a volume she didn't even know she possessed, ebullient and loud as she bounces from one leg to another, everyone around her staring in a mixture of amusement and mild confusion. She does not care. From her small red purse, she retrieves a perfect rolled joint. Oh. This is new. Slinging it between her deep red fingernails, she lifts it to her mouth, flicks her neon lighter against its twisted tip, and takes a deep drag as her eyes flutter closed. She holds it within her, seconds passing before she releases the smoke skyward. Her movements, seamless with the ease of frequency. She does it again, the skin of her bare face supple with sweat, shining. There is a serene beauty to her in the way her entire body rejects the performance of perfection. She is not sucking in her belly, not fretting about the downward slope of her breasts, not concealing the bags underneath her eyes. She is just a girl in a park in the city she loves, getting high with the man she loves. It is all so simple. She lifts the joint to W’s mouth, placing it between his lips, feeding him as her fingers brush his bottom lip, warm and supple. He smiles at her from underneath his eyes. A look passes between them, and we know they will soon carry their bodies away from here to do what they hunger for. To speak a language only their bodies understand. Looking at them, you would only see a young couple having fun in Lagos on Christmas Eve. But if you looked closer, you would see a small fresh scar underneath her belly button, obscured by the beads. Her eyes are slits now, blurred by herb and drink, but just a few hours ago, they poured torrents because her body refused to allow itself to be taken by the man she wanted to give it to. At first, we conclude that wholeness can be an act, easy to put on in a jam-packed field in the middle of Victoria Island. But then we watch her even closer – the move of her hips, the way her eyes light up when her lover traces the skin at the base of her neck, the way she closes her eyes to soak up all that music, all that joy, all that magic – and we know that even broken things possess their own wholeness, a cacophony of healing to rage against the silence of suffering and our girl from all those years ago is still here, still bending, still shifting, still becoming. She walks out of the park that night, and we wrap our arms around her, rejoicing over resilience and beauty, rejoicing over all the ways a girl becomes a woman who fights to be alive and whole, enough for herself in every season. ### 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.

Nitashia Johnson is a multimedia visual artist and educator from Dallas, Texas whose work has been exhibited across Texas and internationally. To care about stories is to care about the world, and understanding our own gives us purpose. For as long as she can remember, storytelling through art has been Nitashia Johnson’s way of understanding the world around her and her place within it. As a multidisciplinary artist and educator from Dallas, Texas, her journey since life started has led her through a rich creative education at Booker T. Washington High School for the Performing and Visual Arts, Texas Woman’s University, and the Rhode Island School of Design. Now, she works as a Digital Media Specialist while also pursuing work in photojournalism, videography, and education. The belief that art holds the power to transform lives has been at the heart of all the work she does, from founding The Smart Project, a non-profit after-school program for teens in North Texas, to leading creative workshops that help young people discover their unique voices. Over the years, her work has continued to grow and expand into new spaces. The Self Publication Series is a photographic exploration she formed to challenge the stereotypes surrounding the Black community, offering a more nuanced, empowering narrative. Her project, The Beauty of South Dallas, documents the rapid transformation of a historical neighborhood affected by socio-economic shifts, while The Faces That Face works to shine a light on environmental injustices in West Dallas. In Body & Earth , she explores the deep, often overlooked connection between Blackness and the natural world. By using Black muses to embody the elements of Earth, Fire, Water, Air, and Space, she confronts the systemic neglect of both Black communities and the environment. She aims to save lives through art, just as it saved hers. Beyond The Fire The Faces that Face Selections from Black Earth The Beauty of South Dallas "Conflict" Directed by Nitashia Johnson THE INTERVIEW This interview was conducted between Nitashia Johnson and Jae Nichelle on October 13th, 2025. Thank you so much for sharing your incredible work with us! I'm so obsessed with the image “ Beyond the Fire.” Can you talk about how it came to be? Beyond the Fire  is part of my ongoing series Body and Earth , a project that connects Blackness and nature as a way to advocate for both. I use them symbolically to show how Earth can serve as a source of healing, escape, and meditation, but also to reflect on how industries often exploit natural elements in ways that harm marginalized communities, especially Black communities. I know this firsthand because I grew up in those very environments, witnessing both the beauty and the neglect. This work is my way of reimagining that relationship, aligning Blackness with the natural world rather than opposing it. It challenges the idea of Earth as a destructive force toward Black life and instead positions both as powerful, resilient, and deeply interconnected. You've had teachers and mentors in Dallas who recognized your abilities and pushed you forward. How do those early influences show up now, both in your art and in how you mentor for The Smart Project? What qualities do you try to carry forward from those mentors? The teachers, mentors, and even family members who influenced me really changed my life. It was the thought they put into their care for me, the support, the guidance, the intention to make sure I felt seen. That kind of love and attention stuck with me, and it’s a big reason why I do what I do today. Those early influences shaped how I see the world and why I feel it’s so important to serve young people, which is why I created The Smart Project. I remember how amazing it felt to have people believe in me when I was a kid. That support opened the door to creativity and made me realize what was possible. My mentors and teachers helped water the seed my mom planted. Even though she wasn’t always around, she left a beautiful gift. So now, I try to carry that same energy forward in my art and through the youth I work with. My creative practice is all about inspiring others and leaving messages behind that get people thinking. And even though running a small nonprofit can be challenging, it’s worth it. Passing creativity and support down to the next generation is extraordinary and deeply important to me. Speaking of Dallas, your project, The Beauty of South Dallas,  attempted to capture your community amid the active threat of gentrification. What is your relationship with your hometown now? The thing is, South Dallas is the very place that changed my life. It’s where I met my first art teacher, the one who inspired me to go to art school, to become a graphic designer, and to see art as a real career path. That all happened at Pearl C. Anderson Junior High School. The school isn’t open anymore, it's been bought by a church, but the impact it had on me will always stay. When I lived in that community, I was going through a lot personally, but I also believe it was all part of my process. It’s amazing how life works and how the same place that first inspired me creatively became the one I returned to years later to document through my photography. The Beauty of South Dallas  began as a three-month project through the Juanita J. Craft House Artist Residency. At first, my goal was simply to document the community. But as I started working, I realized I needed to capture more than just the place; I wanted to show the essence of the people, the soul that makes the land what it is. That’s how the project got its name. With the ongoing changes and gentrification affecting so many communities, I see photography as a way to freeze time to honor the people, their history, and the beauty that’s always been there. My relationship with my hometown now is one of deep respect and purpose. Just like in West Dallas, my mission is to document, to show the beauty, and to reveal the truth that the people are indeed what make these communities so special. As a child, what were some of your earliest creative inspirations? For me, there were so many things that inspired me. The sky would inspire me, just seeing the clouds. It could be the way light poured through the window. That would be inspiration. My step-granddad, whom I call my grandpa because he was such a wise man, once told me to never lose my smile. That was an inspiration. Although my mom was in my life, she served as a huge inspiration too because she introduced me to the power of drawing, using a pencil to make marks and create something visual. It was the love from a sibling, from my auntie. It was also inspired by fear, the fear of trying things but still doing it anyway. I would even find inspiration in the people I met. That still resides in me today. I get inspired by everything. I can hear a song and be inspired. I can see someone’s cool shoes or outfit and be inspired. Their aesthetic might spark an idea for a photo shoot. I can see a location and be inspired. I can see and feel something and be inspired. I can look at the ocean and be inspired. Everything inspires me. When I think about the work I’m doing now with Body and Earth, how I’m aligning and intertwining nature more into my practice, I realize that energy flows through everything we see and consume. I try to take in the right energy to inspire me. And I love those who inspire me, because that’s the kind of life I want to live, one that’s inspirational, inspiring others while allowing others to inspire me. That, to me, is the beauty of connectivity, of unity, and just being free. Were there any narratives that came up while you interviewed people for The Self Publication  that surprised you? The self-publication is a combination of community stories where I, you know, capture people from within the American Black community, and I capture their narratives, and I edit them, and I use my design and photography skills to produce a book publication that is self-published. I would say there were things that tugged at my heart, but that didn't come as a surprise, right? Because we're all different in many ways. Blackness isn't just one thing, but we're all so diverse in our being, but we come together as this collective that shares the same experiences, culture, styles, foods, mannerisms, beauty, and spirit, right? So, because I'm so intertwined, and I've read history through and through, and I continue to learn, many of the things that I was able to read that highlighted their experiences didn't come as a surprise, but it did remind me of how magical, and just beautiful, and powerful they were to have overcome so many of these things. The words that they wrote were just so magnificent, and inspiration, and an inspiration for me to keep going and working on this. I can't wait to see what's next for this project, because I plan to work on Volume Four. It will be done in a different way, but it's been truly remarkable. I think the only thing that surprised me was the beauty in their souls, but that wasn't even a surprise at all, because of course they have that. Your work in photojournalism, design, videography, multimedia, as well as education. How does your artistic approach shift between the different modalities? How does my approach shift? It's kind of like one area leads into the next, and they all kind of intertwine, which is quite extraordinary. Photojournalism deals with storytelling and utilizing my photography skills, which also helps me build my people skills, right, as far as connecting and being very empathetic when dealing with their stories, while also using the technical skills of photography. When it relates to design, design is a different way to reveal the story and provide information. You’re laying out information and using a sense of hierarchy, not to say that any piece of information is less important than another, but to use different elements together as a way to deliver the message or tell the story so that it reaches people, and it’s also pleasing to the eye. Design has worked to support The Self Publication , The Beauty of South Dallas , and pretty much all of my projects, including the nonprofit, The Smart Project, because I’m able to design things in a way that will capture the attention of those I’m trying to reach. When it comes to videography, photography has inspired my eye for composition and storytelling, so I’m able to dive into filmmaking to create things that are poetic, emotional, and cinematically beautiful. As a multimedia or multidisciplinary artist, I just love to explore, so everything ties into my entire being. It makes up the core of who I am. By doing all of these things, it also pours over into education, because what I learn in the real world is what I teach my students. The same way my grandpa gave me his wisdom and told me to never lose my smile, I relay that same information. What you learn and what you experience in life is what you teach, so I decided to teach wisdom through my creative practice. I shift between all of them because it brings me joy, and overall, they support the base of my projects in their entirety. If you had a personal theme song, what would it be? Oh my gosh, this is so hard. Like, what kind of question is this, haha? No, I mean that in a great way. This is so funny because I don’t know. I think I would say, if I had a theme song overall as an artist… oh, this is hard. I’m so eclectic when it comes to music. Like I mentioned before, I’m inspired by so many things depending on how I’m feeling. One of the very first songs that inspired me when I was very young was Bittersweet Symphony . The way that buildup happened, I just imagine myself driving down the road with the top down on a sunny day, just feeling free. I thought that was beautiful. That would be my song of choice for just free thoughts. Another one is Candy Rain  by Soul For Real. I really love how that made me feel. Of course, there are so many different genres and music artists that I love. I’m inspired by a little bit of Leon Thomas right now. But overall, right now, I would say my theme song is this beat I heard called Heartburn  by Tenseoh. That song is so cool. It’s such a badass song, a badass beat, and it just makes me feel super dope. Who knows, my theme song might change next week, but nevertheless, it helps me align with the themes I’m putting out into the world. What a hard question, but a beautiful one, though. How can people support you right now? I would love support in inspiring youth through The Smart Project . Any donations would help, and if anyone wants to be a teaching artist or a source of inspiration for the youth, that would be amazing as well. Also, helping to spread the word about my series The Self Publication, The Power of Black Stories , would be incredible. Whether that’s aligning with a publisher or helping reach a wider audience to share these stories with the world, any support there would be beautiful. Following my creative journey is another way to support me. I’m really expanding on Body and Earth , and I’m working on a subcategory of that project called Black Earth: The Story of Jai , which is extraordinary and beautiful. I can’t wait to share it with the world. It’s a slow buildup, but I believe that anything truly meaningful and deep takes time. I’m also working on a short film with an amazing team of women, and you can see more of that on my social media. You can sign up for my email list by sending me a note at info@nitashiajohnsn.com . That way, you can stay in the loop about what I’m creating, what I’m working on, and how you can support. And it’s also about reciprocity. I love finding ways to collaborate and support others because I believe a community stays full by pouring back and forth into each other’s cups. Name another Black woman artist people should know.   One would be Myca Williamson (Creative Director), and Vanessa Meshack (printmaking/painter/educator). They're really great artists. I would also like to recommend Lisa Ford (Creative Director / Filmmaker / Designer). Lisa is phenomenal. Myca is golden. Vanessa is an angel. Just brilliant. They are all beautiful, strong women. I would also love to support my Lil Big Sister (NJ), who I love so much and is a great poet. ### 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.

Nandi Comer is an award-winning poet and essayist. She was appointed as Michigan's poet laureate in 2023, becoming the state's first poet laureate since the 1950s. Nandi Comer  served as the 2nd Poet Laureate of the state of Michigan from 2023 to 2025. She is the author of the chapbook,   American Family: A Syndrome   (Finishing Line Press). Her debut poetry collection, Tapping Out  (Triquarterly)  won the Society of Midland Authors Award and Julie Suk Award. She has received fellowships from Cave Canem, Callaloo, Modern Ancient Brown, Mass Moca, the Academy of American Poets, among others. She currently serves as the 2025-2026 Jay C. and Ruth Halls Poetry Fellow at the Wisconsin Institute for Creative Writing and as a co-Director of Detroit Lit. Photo credit: Khary Mason It Was Still the 90s   The decade I fell for so many boys in Jodeci boots. I started my period, finished grade school, middle school, then high school  and it was still the 90s. When a girl and her sisters followed me home wanting a fight, I talked them down with reason and my mother’s  5lb weight in my lap. At sixteen I let a boy have my virginity. At seventeen, I told another  he was my first. A man wanted to come to my house for an innocent visit until I told him I’d lost it. On TV I watched everything from home: MARTIN, O.J., Rodney, Aaliyah  OJ again. All so shiny and sweaty–then   frightening. All anyone wanted was to be fresh and clean. We thought the world would end. Y2K was coming, and the computers,  and the banks and me, lifting my hands through all the falling confetti. On Malice On November 5, 1992, Malice Green died from blunt force trauma to the head after being assaulted by seven Detroit police officers. Of the seven, Walter Budzyn, Larry Nevers, and Robert Lessnau were the only ones to stand trial. Who can understand a crack vile  and lighter, the soft rub of a car’s worn carpet, the weight  of a flashlight, how its steel  can form a blunt blow?  I once was a steelworker  then I became a memorial mural, multicolored balloons, a stuffed animal, an altar. That night, TLC’s Baby, Baby, Baby hummed  from my car. Me, in a head haze,  tilting two steps from the house. They pulled me half out of my car and half into  my afterlife. What could I have done  with no willing witness, no accomplice,  no camera to record my removal, my drag.  By the time the medics cradled my head,  lifted my limbs, drove me away handcuffed, I was already a martyr. Whoever says my night  was small, a momentary slip  has never had their brain explode into seizures, has never had to count the fists to seven, to fourteen, to me. Malice Green’s Mother Mourns Her Son  after Anne Sexton I am taking off my funeral shoes  again. A jade stone grows heavy  in my belly. I have said it one too many times. A boy, run down. A woman lost  on the operating table. But now  my son, a gone ghost, an orifice  no sorry can fill. I don’t have the breath  to kick off cemetery dust, slide the art  of mourning to the floor. My dress  can’t tell the cypress how  to do its dying song.  I am exhausted with all of my dying. Death is a rat scurrying over my chest  and no one knows how to kill it. Beautiful whim, come with your thin veins. Lay your head in my lap.  I am ready to mourn you. Skin. Light. Shade. Almond. Peach. honey- colored. We called them  so many sweet names. Did it matter?  We knew when pretty walked in and  side-eyed herself in a mirror. Jasmine Guy  Tisha Campbell,  Halle Berry. Light girls,  we called pretty. Light boys, we called  pretty, while we chocolate, coffee,  dusty black girls remade ourselves  pink, lavender,  fuchsia-lipped hip-cocked, spread-thighed, dead- pan cute. We propped our bodies’  awkward teeter on our knees’  unsteady lean on bathroom sinks, necks tilted into our vanities.  I pressed, greased, curled, tucked,  and pinned my kinks. It was me  or a version of me alone  with the toffee-skinned child, poor in clothes but pretty in skin. Gray, my mother called her. Every day  she arrived on our doorstep, mud-smeared,  day-old funk stale. Nothing a curling iron,  or hair spray, or gel couldn’t smooth  into pretty. Her hue, her eyes made me  shadow under such glow. Today I am no better  standing in the grocery line, huffing to work,  leaning over the green billiards table. I know my dark coy will get me so far,  while another’s curls and hair hair hair  tumbling over shoulders at the bar or mall or  café, sipping and sun-kissed,  the pink of their cheeks shrinks me.       I                  fade  disappear and  we all succumb  drown         falling  into that monstrous  glimmering skin. THE INTERVIEW This interview was conducted between Nandi Comer and Jae Nichelle on October 8, 2025. Thank you for sharing these incredible poems. “It was still the 90s” begins as such a personal and specific portrait and zooms out, by the end of the poem, to situate your speaker in the larger societal context of the time. How did you develop the lens through which you approached writing this poem?  Lately, I have been nostalgic about my adolescent years during the 1990s. I was inspired by today’s fascination with the '90s. It has been fantastic seeing some of our styles reemerge in the public eye, but today’s interest seems to be forgetting some of the core details that I experienced. Like, why don’t people talk about the anxiety we felt during Y2K! I turned ten in 1990 and turned twenty right before Y2K. I wanted this poem to express the immensity of events and changes that occur in a decade: how the body changes, and what the individual experiences reveals about a collective culture. I wanted to tap into the specificity in that shaky transition from girlhood to adolescence and eventual young adult—and the dangers. That poem allowed me to explore my personal memories and contemplate how the “I” could be a universal nostalgic “we.” “On Malice” and “Malice Green’s Mother Mourns her Son” are written through the perspective of Malice and then his mother. Do you have a process for how you so carefully adopt different voices in your work, especially those of real people? The persona poem or the dramatic monologue is something I often tap into for storytelling. I am inspired by writers like Patricia Smith, Ai, and Wisława Szymborska. Persona allows me to better explore a topic or experience. At times, it feels like “spirit work” where I open myself and invite the voice to say what needs to be said. For a long time, I have used personas to deeply explore acts that confuse me, particularly acts of violence. I often wonder what it takes to inflict or endure violent acts.  Malice Green's murder was a case that rippled through Detroit and extended across the nation. There were daily vigils and protests immediately following his murder, and a long trial followed. Because the incident occurred nine months after the LA riots, everyone was afraid that Detroit would erupt into uprisings as well. Despite being a significant historical moment for Detroit, the Detroit Public Library has only one book about his death—a memoir by one of the police officers. In these two poems, I wanted to document two Detroit voices so that they are not forgotten.  At a time when many communities' stories are in danger of being erased, the persona poem is an approach that allows me to retell as closely as possible and offer an archive for narratives that are already being forgotten. As Michigan’s 2nd Poet Laureate (2023–2025), you launched “Michigan Words,” a statewide campaign of billboards that feature quotes from Michigan poets. What moments from that project stay with you most vividly? The moment that stays with me most is the pride the writers expressed when they talked about their families seeing the billboards for the first time. M. Bartley Siegel told me his mom was more excited about the billboard than a lot of his other poetry accomplishments. Jonah Mixon-Webster called it life-changing. While I was traveling the state, I passed some of those billboards, and at times I’d get out of my car to take pictures. It was amazing seeing big, larger-than-life pictures of my peers. We all got to relish the stunning verse of poets like Brittany Rogers—whose author photo, by the way, is every bit as captivating as her lyric. You also helped create the PBS/WKAR video series Michigan in Verse . What drew you to the video format for this project? How was the experience? Before my appointment, Michigan had not had a Poet Laureate in 60 years. I was fortunate to be approached with many ideas for projects by so many community members. When WKAR and the Library of Michigan asked if I wanted to produce a poetry series, how could I say no? I immediately wanted to feature as many poets as possible. Michigan is so rich with a diverse poetry community. I wanted to bring the whole poetry family on set.  Collaboration was at the heart of everything I did as Michigan’s Poet Laureate. All of the events, readings, and conferences I did were the result of collective work. The Michigan in Verse  was the result of a strong collaborative team where each individual member contributed their expertise to the project. The producers at WKAR possessed all the technical knowledge regarding cameras and sets. They turned to me for the knowledge about Michigan poets that would represent the state and bring a unique texture to the series. It was a very harmonious leadership strategy where we each deferred to the person who best knew when it was their time to conduct the production. It was great fun celebrating poets from around the state. The series is still up on the station's website for the world to view. I love it! When thinking of the many fellowships you’ve held (from Cave Canem and Callaloo to your current fellowship with the Wisconsin Institute for Creative Writing), what aspects of these fellowships have most transformed your writing practice? Of all the writing opportunities I have received, Cave Canem, by far, carries the most impact. It was my first writing retreat and the first time participating in an international community of writers. I met so many kinds of black writers—writers from New York to Montana to Washington. I met writers I had read, who I never thought I would have the opportunity to sit in a room with. It was hard work, but also a lot of fellowship. I forged forever friendships. The space broadened my understanding of what my life could be as a writer in the world. I don’t think I would have attempted anything that came after if I had not had that opportunity. I think every writer deserves a space that gives them a sense of belonging, one that completely transforms their understanding of themselves. What questions are you exploring in your work right now? I am thinking a lot about the role archives play in our community. The act of deeming someone important to society and asking them to place their personal and professional records in an archive is a wild thing we humans do. I am meditating on questions like who gets an official archive in a library. What spaces outside of libraries can be sustainable sites for archives? What kind of technology will allow for the longevity of an archive? What is appropriate for an archive? Letters to a Mayor? YouTube videos of 90s dance shows? Can my aunt's recipe box be an archive? It all boils down to what we as communities want to remember.  You were raised in Detroit and represent the city heavily in your writing. What do you love about Detroit’s literary scene?  Detroit’s literary scene is lovely. We have all kinds of poets. We have a history of literary giants, such as Dudley Randall and Robert Hayden, but we also have a rich performance and slam poetry scene with a dynamic legacy. Without the influence of a large institution driving a particular aesthetic, Detroiters tend to be self-taught or mentored by other poets. This develops a drive and hunger that is unique to each poet. In many cities, one can tell their local influences. I don’t see that in the writers from my city. Aricka Froeman, Brittany Rogers, Tommye Blount, jessica Care moore, and Jamaal May all write incredibly differently from one another, yet we all come from the same city. I love that! Where would you take a food critic who was visiting Detroit? You’re trying to get me in trouble. I'm not sure about a food critic, but any friend of mine who visits me in Detroit is going to get Middle Eastern food. Since the Detroit area is home to the largest Arab community in the United States, Middle Eastern cuisine is important to our culture. We take our falafel and shawarma very seriously. People try to take me to try restaurants in other regions, and they just don’t have the same flavor. We have drive-thru restaurants that are top-tier. How can people support you right now? I am expanding my teaching offerings. I would love to come to your community to teach. I've been working on new workshops and generative classes. Invite me out.  Name another Black woman writer people should follow.  Just one?!?!?! I am here for all black woman writers, but right now, I would love to uplift Jassmine Parks and Maryhilda Obasiota Ibe two very different poets, but fabulous writers. ### Torch Literary Arts  is a 501(c)3 nonprofit established to publish and promote creative writing by Black women. We publish contemporary writing by experienced and emerging writers alike. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Click here to support Torch Literary Arts.

a. adenike phillips (she/her) is a poet, cultural worker and collagist based in New Jersey. She believes in the transformative ability of art to heal, disrupt and reshape sight. She writes toward the interior lives of Black people—stories that slip between generations and place, often going unnoticed. Phillips has received support from AWP, Hurston/Wright, POWERHOUSE Residency, Arts by The People, and others. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in the North American Review, The Fire Inside Anthology Volume III, The Amistad, Gulf Stream Magazine, and elsewhere. Her visual work was exhibited through the Community Scholars program at Rutgers, Newark. Phillips is completing her first full manuscript of poetry. saint handyman   damn us all for never praisin’ the working saints, minor as they may seem. like mr. jesse of south tenth street, common relic of fixin’ & buildin’—hands might could heal   anything he touched. his long salt & pepper beard, nest for lost washers & morsels of last night’s cornbread.  in desperation my family petitioned the patron saint of plumbers,   jesse needed of a pair of good fittin’ pants, sturdy suspenders or a king-sized belt to spare us from basking in the black moon each time he bent over.  but mostly jesse needed   his wife to hold him up, to unfurl the worlds that coursed through his hands.  hands that knew the angles of wood  & the angles of her body, hands  that could smooth her out from her shoulders  to the soles of her feet. jesse a man so handy, each finger a saintly instrument.  praise be— the cuts, praise be the cracks, praise be  the grease, praise be the splinters, praise be every nail that pricked his palms. bless his   broken down         holdin’ on          holdin’ up,  holdin’   out       each night beholding   to what was unsayable.  in his arms, a bottle of 80-proof pillow-talkin’ him at the altar of dreamin’ where his wife was still keepin’ house, tendin’ to kids, her voice tenderin’ all their card game disputes & sawhorse rodeos. she got to hummin’ a hymn,  to skillet cornbread.  she got to her way of fixin’  of healin’  everything in her wake.  praise be— ### 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.

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.