(downstage left) ENTERS LOUDLY: the comfort of a luxury hotel lobby

An ego reflects iridescent 
in the gilt, its body rolls laterally 
to favor high value angles. 

She is selling lips: shaved, parted,
a diastema swollen with cocaine.
Her breaths a brachycephalic dog

waking from a nightmare
of a perpetual moan heard
only by bitcoin johns.

(center) MALE INDEX FINGER: strumps across the glass of a tablet looking for Instagram

Mother of pearl veneers
hiss behind the curtain 
of an inflated labrum, generous 

with technology. Evolved 
silicon anxious to be 
found by a future archaeologist

in a potter’s field 
of swaying daisies, afflicted 
by their immortality.

(left/offstage) OPEN WINDOW: centered, a shellac glossa automaton plays Billie Eilish

A baritone bullhorn scatters Rumi’s
wisdom, asinine yet unworthy
of Pinocchio’s pleasure island.

A spirituality of scented candles 
recasts drug dealers as white shamans 
pushing gear she will not buy 

but readily use to cultivate a wit
edited into a skin tone trend
of the latest pantone standard.

(apron) NOILE SILK GRAND DRAPE: the stranded protagonist wears proscenium as tiara

A horned gait fawns a litter of
struts born with old age 
embroidered driftwood replicates

faster than shipwrecks, tik-toking
into an anachronism
as momentous as a male orgasm.

Lights dim out of charity 
to leave her later years devoid 
of reflections, veiled in a penumbra 

of hyaluronic acid. The warble of 
an extinct bird is preserved:
unknown in life, acknowledged in flesh.

The Second Wave was imminent, I knew, just a matter of trepid hours and speculationto live for. And then I too would end on the seabed with no company;or drown in this hospital bed. No use breaking windows to run farther onto land when the hotelcollapsed like a house of matchsticks. My fever kicked and…

Ocean Culture Life (OCL) is dedicated to empowering a global community of ocean storytellers, advocates, and guardians to inspire, educate, and protect marine ecosystems. Aligned with the United Nations Sustainable Development Goal 14, their initiatives promote conservation and deepen public engagement with the ocean. Since becoming a registered charity in Jersey, the Channel Islands, in December 2022, OCL has hosted vibrant World Oceans Day celebrations and immersive educational workshops, fostering ocean literacy and collaboration with marine organizations. OCL also gives out over 30 storytelling grants a year, directly funding and supporting their storytelling community. By celebrating the ocean through the power of storytelling, OCL inspires a new generation of ocean storytellers, advocates, and guardians committed to preserving our coastal environments for future generations.

Battle of the Colors

by Francesca Page

Jet-black ink engulfs the emerald and marigold amphitheater as a young male Giant Cuttlefish flees, his bruised and scarred arms a testament to the battles fought for the survival of his kind. Gliding over the reef, he wears these wounds like badges of courage, marks of the relentless competition he faces to secure his legacy.

As the morning’s golden rays dance upon the frigid waters of South Australia, this underwater world stirs awake to a new day of battles, courtship, love, and heartbreak. Descending into this realm teeming with alien-like creatures, a drama as old as time, pulsing with the ocean’s heartbeat, the relentless struggle for love.

This seasonal fighter glides effortlessly over the reef, yesterday’s battles fading like a distant memory. Today brings new hopes as he stirs with quiet resolve, stretching his tentacles wide as dawn breaks through the water. Like a painter’s brushstroke on an ocean canvas, his body shimmers with purpose, pulsating in a hypnotic dance of blues, greens, and purples. He blends into his surroundings, shape-shifting with ease, his keen eyes sweeping for potential suitors. With each pulse and ripple, he prepares to captivate, conquer, and perhaps, finally meet her.

From above, a spotlight shines down on the reef, and nestled beneath the seaweed lies the female. Perfectly camouflaged in golden hues, she hovers silently, patiently waiting for him. Her beauty is unlike any other. Yet her allure has not gone unnoticed. She is surrounded by determined admirers, one, two, three… he loses count as she becomes engulfed by a kaleidoscope of pulsating colors. The heart knows what it wants, let the battle of the colors begin!

With purpose, he moves in, fixating on his beloved; the stage is set for an elaborate shape-shifting show. The largest admirer, looming like a spaceship above him, bellows a challenge, ready for battle. Like a well-rehearsed performance, these males adorn themselves in vibrant, elaborate costumes, each putting on the show of their lives and perhaps their last. The fight begins with a hypnotic dance; they whirl around each other, flaunting and stretching

their bodies to amplify their dominance and power in the water. He has waited too long to find her; this is a fight he cannot afford to lose. As the spectacle escalates, their bodies pulsate with mesmerizing swirls of white and orange, each determined to hypnotize, control, and ultimately win her.

His eyes dilate, intoxicated by love; he is transported into a trance. For a moment, he leaves his body, observing the battle from above, powerless in the face of defeat. Blinded by passion, he doesn’t see the larger male strike, driving a sharp blade into his vibrant armor. Abruptly, he awakens from his spell. With a heavy heart, he falters under the weight of his wounds. Retreating to the safety of the seaweed, he watches his love from afar. Yet, the call of love propels him forward. What he lacks in size, he makes up for in cunning; why fight when you can outsmart?

She locks eyes with him, trapped beneath a sea of unwanted males, her gaze silently beckoning him closer. It’s not size she desires, but intelligence, and he knows exactly what to do. With calculated precision, he employs a clever strategy, slipping in undetected as he masquerades as a female, altering his colorful armor and retracting his tentacles. Like a shadow, he glides beneath the larger males, evading their notice until he finally reaches her side.

Gently, he extends one of his arms to touch her, and her eyes speak a thousand words of passion. Their arms intertwine, head to head, heart to heart, an embrace that signifies the beginning of new life and the survival of their species. In this moment, the chaotic world around them fades away; all that exists is the delicate bond between two Giant Cuttlefish and the promise of their shared legacy, where intelligence wins.

Learning to Swim

by Maddy Bolt

I have learned a lot since first landing in Indonesia six years ago. I’ve learned how to ask for a nasi goreng in Bahasa, how to navigate down a dusty hill on a motorbike with a passenger and two surfboards, and how to tell if the tide will be too low to surf. However, something I took for granted was already knowing how to swim. I barely even remember learning! My faintest memory of learning how to swim, was being told to act like a starfish while attempting to float—at the tender age of five years old. This experience was something I took for granted—until I moved to Indonesia.

Despite spending almost every day in the water, I can count on one hand the number of local women I had seen surfing. Now living in Indonesia part-time and surfing almost daily, I continued to wonder about this. Were local women interested in surfing but just not participating? Or was I projecting my own “western” assumptions onto a community that might not share the same interest in the ocean?

I decided to find out the answer. I turned to Misel, a close local friend of mine. She managed one of my favorite local restaurants in town and we had gotten to know each other drinking many coffees over the years. When I asked her if she was interested in something like surfing, her eyes immediately lit up and she said, “Surfing?! That is my dream. Of course I want to surf.” At least for Misel, it was not a question of having interest.

When I probed her further and asked whether other local women felt the same way, she added exuberantly, “Many of my friends would love to surf! That is something we have only dreamt of doing!” Interesting, I thought, “So why have you not taken the leap to learn?” Misel laughed and said, “Well first we would have to learn how to swim!” This is where I had to check my privilege. I had assumed most of these women had grown up swimming since they lived on an island.

What I later realized, is that despite being in their mid-thirties and growing up in sight of the water their whole lives, many of the local women had never even been in the ocean past their knees. This was due to a myriad of reasons, from a general lack of time due to childcare responsibilities, local folklore stigmatizing the ocean as evil, and parents instilling fear in their young daughters in order to protect them. While this fear worked to keep women away from the ocean, it worked against their favor in dire situations.

Drowning is the third leading cause of unintentional injury death in the world, and one of the leading causes of accidental death in Indonesia. Children are especially at risk, since women, who are the primary caregivers to their families, are unable to swim and save those that have been swept away by currents or rogue waves.

This is where the idea for OceanFolx began. In partnership with Misel and a few other local femme leaders in the community, we spent the next year building and starting a swimming, ocean safety, and surfing program. We aim to prevent drowning through a ripple effect. We empower local women by teaching them essential swimming skills, ocean safety, and life-saving techniques. For those who want to go further, we have started an introductory surf program once they’ve mastered adequate swimming and water safety skills. Our program goes beyond basic training by including a leadership component, which equips these women with the tools and confidence to pass these skills on to their children, families, and communities. This approach not only amplifies their impact but also fosters a broader culture of safety and knowledge.

Through our initiative, we empower women, inspire local leadership, and promote environmental stewardship. By encouraging more time spent in and around the ocean, we help transform their relationship with the environment from one of fear to one of positive engagement and respect. Our program brings women together, creating a supportive community where they can empower each other and interact with the ocean in a safe and meaningful way.

In 2025, we will be running our second year of programming. Misel has come a long way and is now working as our local program coordinator. She recruits new students to our non-profit program and is working to become a swim teacher with us. We are committed to empowering more women through our comprehensive swim training program, guiding them all the way to becoming certified swim teachers. Our vision extends beyond our current reach; we aspire to expand our impact by introducing our programs to the neighboring island of Sumbawa and by launching exciting, new at-sea sailing programs. By donating, you can help us provide life-changing opportunities and build a brighter future for the women in our community.

Throughout this journey, I continue to be humbled and inspired every day by Misel and each and every one of our students. It has been incredibly rewarding to share my knowledge and watch our local women step up as leaders, ready to become the next OceanFolx teachers as I transition into a supportive role. Watching them float and telling each other to act like a “bintang-laut,” starfish in Bahasa, brings the biggest smile to my face—and all the hard work feels worth it.

The Sea Inside Ourselves Is Showing

by Jillian Nettels

Does the darkness hold light in abeyance? 
How waves pulse between blurred edges defy. 
Emboldened by revealing raw moments, 
Glisten as we listen to the sky.
Our gazing is a tether in vast spaces,
Radiate a secret silent knowing,
As reflections on rippling places,
That the sea inside ourselves is showing. 
Waters linger in a lonely abyss,
In the dark depths we share suffused longing 
for our promised presence of Neptune’s bliss. 
In remembrance of Day’s vanishing
the Night has taken form from holding breath, 
That Life is a reckoning with Death.
The sea inside ourselves is knowing.
The sea inside ourselves is showing.

Ancient Waters, Modern Warnings: A Scientist’s Love Letter to the Mediterranean

by Arzucan “Zuzu” Askin

The Mediterranean Sea, with its startlingly blue depths and storied coastline, has a unique claim on my heart. As a child, I spent endless summer days diving into these fabled waters, searching for ancient treasures that seemed to whisper through the currents. My quarry wasn’t only shells and smooth stones; I was entranced by the seagrass meadows and the centuries-old amphoras hidden beneath the waves. Each dive was an act of discovery, a glimpse into the world of sailors and merchants from millennia past. I learned early on that the Mediterranean was no mere sea, but a bridge between human history and the wild mystery of the ocean.

From my very first encounter with those seagrass meadows—fields of Posidonia stretching across the seafloor like vast, verdant carpets—I was struck by the way these delicate green strands seemed to breathe life into the water. Posidonia meadows are among the most productive ecosystems on Earth, sequestering carbon, nurturing young marine life, and filtering water. These fields of seagrass became sacred places for me, sites of personal pilgrimage and discovery. They felt as much a part of Greek mythology as the stories of Odysseus and the sea gods.

Diving down after hearing my mother’s tales of the sea, I would imagine I was in the lair of Poseidon himself. The seagrass swayed like dancers in tune with his trident’s rhythms, and around me, I felt the presence of forgotten legends: ancient gods, sirens, and the creatures of maritime folklore. For thousands of years, the Mediterranean has held sway over human imagination. This was a sea that demanded respect, a wild place of tempestuous tides and lurking mysteries—a gateway between the known world and realms beyond.

The Mediterranean shaped me as a scientist, teaching me to observe, to ask questions, and to see the world as an intricate puzzle of ecosystems and cultural histories. It has shaped the way I approach conservation today— interdisciplinary, grounded in tradition yet open to innovation, and inclusive of multiple perspectives. As someone who grew up between cultures, I found that the Mediterranean offered a unique bridge between worlds: East and West, ancient and modern, wild and human. Its diversity, both ecological and cultural, reflects how deeply connected the ocean is to human identity. This sea instilled in me the importance of understanding not just the science of ecosystems, but the people, practices, and stories intertwined with them.

In many ways, the Mediterranean sharks I now study serve as symbols of this delicate balance between the wild and the human. Ancient Greeks feared and revered these apex predators, folding them into myths and maritime tales, from the great white to the angelshark. Yet today, many of the sharks of the Mediterranean are critically endangered, their numbers dwindling to a fraction of what they once were. Driven by overfishing, habitat loss, and the pressures of a warming sea, the decline of Mediterranean sharks is a devastating loss—not only of biodiversity but of living history. We are watching the unraveling of a story that has been unfolding for millions of years, and with it, a part of our collective human heritage.

Today, however, the Mediterranean is also a frontline for climate change. Rising sea temperatures, invasive species, and acidification are reshaping the delicate balance that has persisted here for thousands of years. The Mediterranean is warming 20% faster than the global average, putting ancient Posidonia meadows, the lungs of the sea, under grave threat. For those of us who see the Mediterranean as both a living ecosystem and a cultural cornerstone, the stakes are heartbreaking. It has always been a body of water that mirrored the ebbs and flows of human civilization, from trade routes to warfare, and now it has become an early warning system for the entire planet.

The changes sweeping through the Mediterranean Sea are not isolated—they’re ripples, harbingers of transformations reaching far beyond its shores. Invasive species from warmer waters have already begun to push out native species, with entire food webs restructured in ways we are only beginning to understand. For me, the Mediterranean’s transformations have always felt deeply personal, as though the very threads of my own connection to this sea are fraying, one species or seagrass meadow at a time.

As the Mediterranean changes, so do the traditional ways of life it has supported for centuries. Artisanal fishers, once in harmony with the seasons and the migrations of fish, now grapple with empty nets and foreign species disrupting their catch. The loss of biodiversity is not just about numbers; it is the erosion of a relationship, a rhythm of life that has evolved over thousands of years. We are losing not only wildlife but our traditional ways of being, our connection to place and to the ancient wisdom of those who lived in harmony with the sea long before us.

In global conversations about ocean conservation, the Mediterranean often finds itself overlooked. Perhaps it is due to its proximity to bustling civilizations, or maybe it’s because its compact size contrasts with the vastness of the Pacific or the Atlantic. Yet the Mediterranean remains one of the most biodiverse seas in the world. Here, species adapted to the rugged conditions of a semi-enclosed sea flourish, from seahorses hiding in meadows to groupers and tuna patrolling rocky reefs. This sea has borne witness to everything from massive migrations of bluefin tuna to the tiny nudibranchs that cloak its rocky shores in vibrant hues. The Mediterranean has long been a paradox: a relatively small, seemingly tame sea, yet brimming with an almost mythical intensity.

The Mediterranean taught me to look at the ocean as a tapestry, woven of both natural and cultural threads. As an interdisciplinary scientist, I now work to bridge the gap between these worlds, to merge science with storytelling and tradition with technology. The Mediterranean’s deep past, where sharks swam freely, where seagrass meadows grew untouched, continues to guide me as I navigate today’s conservation challenges across cultures and disciplines. This sea, this teacher, is not just a reminder of the beauty we stand to lose but of the resilience we can find—if we learn to listen to the stories that have always flowed through its waters.

The Mediterranean’s history is written not only into the marble walls of temples, or into folklore, but into its ecosystems, from the green seagrass meadows to the large whales. We are at a crossroads, and over the next decade we must decide what we want the Mediterranean’s story to become. This body of water has been humanity’s compass for thousands of years; by protecting its biodiversity, we are also protecting the cultures that call it home. In saving the Mediterranean, we are saving a piece of ourselves—our history, our future, and our enduring connection to the ocean.

threnody, adrift her sister’s name was Melody because—blonde, beautiful, sweet as maple sap straight from the weeping bark— their parents knew she was siren-bound. threnody, though: bony, stringy, quiet as owls on the hunt could only ever be a ghost Melody sang threnody wept Melody keened threnody screamed Melody walked into the surf & threnody…

The Ghost Ship

It’s not that we didn’t know. Your name, after all,
was the Ghost Ship, some kind of omen for what you’d become.

Ferrying somebody’s sister, somebody’s body, some bodies 
across that fiery water: elsewhere. I don’t believe

in elsewhere, an eternity of fire or sun. You were mannequin arms 
and a rug on a dance floor. Some kind of baroque, you

were built of pallets and tar paper, old couches, and terrycloth. 
Everything that burns. You were art, and art is always worth burning.

I don’t believe in fate. I believe in grief, what it does to us. 
Somewhere, somebody said: intergenerational trauma.

This isn’t my grief, not mine to carry, a chalky
fire-crisped piano, the twanging sound of each string popped

by heat. Everything can be a performance. The hand- 
lebars of a ’65 Panhead. Your dark mustache

and aviator shades. You didn’t die in this fire’s crush: 
a dream filled with opulence and hope.

Rents so high twenty-two people live and build
where they build beauty, too. This wasn’t how we lost you—

timbers crashed in char and singe, staircase crumbled 
in smoky crush—

The things we love to blame, the things we love 
end us. One fire or another, inheritance

of doors burned shut. I think of you with no escape 
I think of you                 how could I not

           my first ghost                  I wish I could
                        sail back to you                          I wish I could remember

[The italicized line “a dream filled with opulence and hope” is taken from Ghost Ship 
founder and master tenant Derick Ion Almena’s Facebook post the day after the fire.]

Muscle Test

They say it comes in waves, grief,
like the swell’s crush against
your small board in the ocean,
you learning to surf on such a vast sea, learning

like the boy so proud at the front of the class 
Coach quizzing him, the boy pointing
at his own body, moving
tibialis, gastrocnemius, latissimus

dorsi, the whole body
hurts, doesn’t it, after a day of surfing 
muscles you didn’t know you had 
muscles writing the next day,

sore, the neck turning to watch
for coming swells, for what you know 
will come, what you wait for, can’t 
avoid, pointing here, here,

trapezius, pectoral, the pull of your body 
and the hard board pushing back out 
against the waves coming and coming 
barely any relief in between.

My Mouth Tastes the Ocean When I Kiss My Love

She builds a causeway of her own skin : a road to the sea

She is all water                       hard-shelled crab, heart of fish, hidden sting
                                                                                                        of extinct scorpion

Her bruised nape, sore hip, skewed scapula       the intoxicating smell
                                                                                              of white flower oil and human touch

She is looking for a way back to herself : people, flesh, bone, spirit 
Can she call their names with her seaweed mouth?

She floats between meditation and sleep, body hovering like a frond blown onto calm seas

She is mathematics and perfect form : parabolic sand dune, eyelashes of grass, 
                                                                                 fingernails the empty shells of mollusks

Can I lie in the sun on the shore of myself?

            She built this landscape of what she loves
                                      salt-licked and kelp-strewn : let me rest

Let the swell of the tide carry my love                       her loss                     out to the deep

I press tape along the molding. Moonlit Beach goes down

this new border. Just a whisper

of chartreuse on the baseboards. When I’m done,

there will be no memory of wood paneling. Still the walls

throw their shadows through the paint.

A child’s head, once emptied of its skull, folds like clay

on the floor of a blackened hospital. Another keeps his skull

but not his scalp.

The great Gaza sky settles

into homework toy car rack

of wedding veils. Legs torn off at thigh and knee

and hip—

stop—

globs of paint I wipe with thumb attached to hand,

my arm, my torso, stop—look, there’s morning

sun in here, a gold lamp; the internet will cooperate

when I make it. When I get done drawing this margin.

My crisp line. My clean rollers. Bristles left on the wall—

nice morning

but for those, and for

the mother,

crawling into a hospital bed with her dead son, yellow and purple

with bruising—stop—I will pretend

not to notice the flies or the way

the boy’s sister howls

his name to the wind—

Yesterday the doctor clipped
            a piece of tissue from my cervix.

I fainted, came to, dined
            on ice chips. Bled and bled.

Venus, not Earth, is another word
            for beauty.  The doctor dabs my wound

with the coagulation ointment that she said
            I wouldn’t need, probably.

I fear the things inside of me.
            Pain’s shadow writhes like a maggot.

“Men have no idea what we go through,”
            says the doctor, handing me water.

I hear the word mutated. Childless
            at 33, a heightened cancer risk,

my uterus lies fallow before an angry god.
            Like the wax woman I keep

my eyes shut, like her I swoon.
            Like her, I tear a fang from the moon.

Watching a Movie with Someone I No Longer— you fall asleep—you always have— / just as the murder happens / so i am left to fend for myself & your / body still i cannot bear to imagine myself translated / as rude & now i must / think of ways to carry a body…

psalmody there’s a woman sitting seiza, bare shoulders hunched and bent in the sordid kind of agony only thought up by a man and hovering there right above her, eternally suspended, a drop of blood so shocking in its red her son’s thorned crown upended and the man with scuffed shoes at the lectern reminds…

A Community Feature with Stain’d Arts Stain’d Arts is a Denver-based, multidisciplinary, and artist-run 501(c)3 nonprofit established in 2015. Since then, Stain’d has been curating paid platforms for literary, visual, and performative artists working outside of the dominant narrative. We believe art that disrupts is art doing its best work in society. This approach asks…

Daytona Beach Babies

Ladies’ Night was Wednesday night.
I was a teen wearing the heat like charmeuse;

my rhinestone decolletage not far removed from 
games of Pretty Pretty Princess and Ring Pop richness.

How do fifteen years look,
all dressed up in patent anticipation?

Rappelling from windows like Rapunzel’s lust, two girls 
escaped plain homes to walk toward a sequined strip.

We waited outside Razzle’s, whispering 
Can I have your bracelet? to passersby,

pilfered paper wristbands to vouch for legal age. 
Men said yes, smiles laced with knowing.

We fixed our wrists in paper cuffs
sealed with bubble gum. Tits up for the bouncer.

Sheer surprise at entry. Flash of wrist to the bartender: 
I’ll have a Sex on the Beach, sunset-colored drink

with the naughty name that felt like power on my lips. 
We sat steps from the ocean. Shimmying silky pony hair

and laughing like chimps. Imping the cool girls,
the college girls, even them, barely skirting twenty-one.

Together we danced on go-go stages, hanging, 
small cages for the display of pretty birds like us.

We already knew how to move, how to grind 
our diamond belt buckles against the bars.

When we descended to the dancefloor, a ballroom if ever 
we’d known one, the men materialized in Marlboro clouds.

Our lips tied in bows, we ribboned together for safety.
But each hip thrust, each sip of ether, pulled us a little looser

until we hung askance, stringy and stupid. We imagined 
it was us, holding the keys to the castles between our ears.

We didn’t know better, couldn’t yet grasp 
the jeweled boxes of women

whose hinges and clasps were broken and forced open. 
Force: hadn’t occurred to us yet,

children plumped on American Dreams, 
tender foie gras goslings.

When they crushed their dicks against us
and corseted us in touch; squeezing and rubbing,

churning and shoving, we wondered:
Is this love?

Married on the Eve of Destruction

The roses here are like pomegranate seeds,
ruthlessly carnal and hopelessly tinged

with the scent of the dead.
The soil they grow in is leaden, fungicide

paints each head. The flower smell is bred out 
in a hedge for longevity.

How did this bloom that wreaths collective 
memory in sparking thorn and throbbing petal

become mostly poison? Our apples 
have met a similar fate,

vitamins and minerals bolting
at downshot rates, revolting from the flush.

Calcium, Iron, Phosphate: 
Bone, Blood, Soft Tissue—

What greater issue? If the blocks are lost, 
how will our bodies build?

After my vitals succumb, I will be spirit 
only, a scythe of the new moon.

So much has already been cut away
from my crooning fingers, which reach to grasp

a meager scrap of fragrance, flavor, feeling.
To hold those things like a yawn before thick sleep.

When I go under, my wraith will rake the leaves 
of you, unearth the time we ate apple crumble

hiding in the thicket of my grandmother’s rose 
bushes, that walled-up garden where the thorns

cut my back and your knees and nothing bloomed 
but us, despite the stoniest winter.

Sufficient to Destroy a Man

Behind the Manna of St. Nicholas 
she veiled a means of escape
brought by belladonna,
a clear champion of beautiful women 
(and aren’t we all beautiful)
pressed into a bottle, for ugly skin 
(and aren’t we all ugly).

For their cheeks that bloomed with 
bruises, nebulae forewarning the birth 
and death of stars, rouged with an 
atmosphere of long-waves and shaking 
with volcanic activity, molten in rivers 
and canyons cracked between their ribs.

These women knew the different
kinds of burn: spark, rage, smolder, rain. 
Degrees of damage done by ravaging, 
ravishing lips in red, their words lined in 
the color of blood. The head bleeds so 
much, the mouth heals so fast. The throat 
is always covered when in public. The back 
of the neck exposed when in the home.

Guiliana T. made a pretty bottle, named
for her sake, Aqua Tofana (Storm Water). 
Would it soothe the skin and disappear
the damage? Or could it make the water rise, 
take them to that deep and sleeping place, 
the foam lapping their lips, the sky’s
eyes closing—finally offering the rest— 
with which the moondrunk night is blessed.

What insights did you gain about the relationship between different artistic mediums when adapting Freedom House into a solo art exhibit? How did this process influence your writing?

Well, I learned firstly that creating visual art is not easy (haha). Fun fact: I have art directed all my book covers thus far. I’m good at knowing what looks good but was not so good at making it happen with my hands before these exhibits. Regardless, I first tried painting and was making a lot of hogwash; I then tried digital collage which proved to be more successful. What helped with the transition of poems in Freedom House from the page to digital collage was reminding myself they are two separate art forms simply speaking to each other.

I’d ask myself, “What do I imagine when I read this poem?” and then recreate that with stock images I could find online. It was challenging but rewarding because I pushed myself to do something I thought I was “bad” at! Much love to Prizer Arts & Letters and the Dougherty Arts Center for being open to my ideas and giving me the space/time/resources to debut Freedom House: An Exhibition.

You’ve received numerous awards for your poetry. How do you view the role of recognition in your writing journey, and does it impact your creative process in any way?

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t keep me going. There are days I don’t feel like writing, or feel greatly bewildered by something I’m writing, or feel like I’ll never write again; it’s all par for the course.

Writing is also a profession filled with rejection. At one point, I was getting a rejection letter from a literary magazine or press at least weekly. A yes can feel like salvation when you’ve gotten a hundred nos. Every award I’ve gotten has at least fifty no’s in the shadows of it. Those yeses, alongside having good literary friends and a true passion for telling untold stories about the people I love (including myself), are the things that have really kept me returning to the desk over the past fifteen years.

You tackle many serious topics in your work yet are still able to provide a glimmer of hope for the future for Black queer and trans lives. What role does community play in your writing practice? How does it sustain or build you up?

Community is how I even started writing. I had a group of high school friends who loved going to an afterschool thing called “poetry society” and I wanted to hang out with my friends, so I started going with them. And now I’m a poet—just like that! I think you cannot be a good writer if you don’t have people— in books or IRL or in your phone—that encourage you to go harder.

Outside of friendship, I love having local open mics, reading series, literary organizations, indie bookstores, and a robust library system where I live, giving me ample opportunities to learn and listen to and read creative writing (check out my literary Austin list!).

And even outside of the literary sphere, I’m in a city where several stellar Black and queer folk like Aira Juliet, Gothess Jasmine, Tarik Daniels, Joe Anderson, and many more are making space for Black queer futurity and art. Hope and community are essential to literature and life.

Pretty does a great job at braiding poetry into various sections as well as bleeding into the prose. How has poetry inspired you to express intense, passionate emotions when talking about issues important to you?

Well, poetry is the language of the heart. I learn that from every poet I read and every poet I’m lucky enough to be friends with. We’re working in a medium that intentionally explores things previously thought of as unknowable, unsayable, and the like. I turn to poetry when I have a feeling that can’t be relayed in everyday speech; poetry inspires me to be my most honest self. So yes, I brought those impulses to Pretty, which is a book that tries to pin down many fleeting memories I have of my life—which has been marked by racism, queerphobia, domestic violence, state violence, and many other hard things, unsayable things. Life asks a lot of questions of us. In Pretty, I answer some of those with prose and poetry.

The publishing process can feel intimidating. What was that process like for you and what advice would you give to aspiring authors?

It has been beautiful in some ways (AKA: meeting really giving editors and such). It has also been degrading in others (AKA: being asked to pay fees for people to consider my work, anti-queer/anti-Black editors, etc). For this reason, it is essential you send your work to literary magazines and presses who are invested in your voice (rather than what they think you SHOULD sound like). They should also have a diverse staff, and (in my opinion) not charge you out the wazoo just to read your work. You shouldn’t be going broke trying to be a writer.

It’s also critical, vital even, to gain a literary community; you can’t write a book and expect people to come out of the crevices to support it. The literary world is a give and take thing. Many of us are doing a lot for very little pay, but we do it because we LOVE words. Make genuine connections with your local bookstores, open mic programmers, literary orgs, etc.

Do not expect people to givegivegive and you taketaketake; make yourself useful to your local community. Also, get some discipline (I say as a non-daily writer). Put time on the calendar to write, then actually write when that time comes along. Find publishing opportunities via Chill Subs or something like that. Also, when your book inevitably comes out, remember it is a privilege to make it that far. Rejoice in it.

Looking ahead, how do you envision your writing evolving in the future? Are there specific themes or projects you’re eager to explore that differ from your previous work?

Man, I hope to always be trying to surprise myself. I hope for the fun and excitement I get from writing and publishing to always outweigh the necessary confusion and unnecessary frustration. I’m currently working on two projects that I got a 2023 National Endowment of the Arts fellowship for. I’m also applying to a whole bunch of stuff. We’ll see!