This selection, chosen by Guest Editor t.r. san, is from Dressing the Bear by Susan L. Leary (Trio House Press 2024).
dwelling
again my brother calls in the middle of Property Brothers to tell me he can build a better house. a blue house with a bluer door & a hundred noiseless windows where i can live overlooking the sea.
a writing desk. sheets of sun stacked to the ceiling like paper. miniature rooms hidden inside every doorknob, one with a library the size of my thumb, fleabane vased in barnacles.
i could live there, i say. in the house built in the company of tv static & other troubled men. feces on the walls & pillows soaked in piss, jumpsuit removed & toothpaste spread over one man’s genitals.
yes, even there, my brother thought beauty. even there, resting besides a hemingway novel on the bookshelf, will be an immaculate little dwelling for his urn.
Susan L. Leary (she/her) is the author of SENTENCE (Nine Syllables Press, fall 2026), selected by Eugenia Leigh as the winner of the Nine Syllables Press Chapbook Contest; More Flowers(Trio House Press, February 2026); and Dressing the Bear (Trio House Press, 2024), selected by Kimberly Blaeser as the winner of the Louise Bogan Award. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in such places as Indiana Review, North American Review, Third Coast, Cream City Review, Smartish Pace, The Arkansas International, and Verse Daily. She holds an MFA from the University of Miami and lives in Indianapolis, IN.
t.r. san is a poet and translator currently based on Gadigal land, with recent work found in minor literature[s], The Cincinnati Review, HAD, Smokelong Quarterly, The Offing, &c. read & reach @thoushallkill on Twitter, or trsan.neocities.org.
This selection, chosen by Guest Editor t.r. san, is from Dressing the Bear by Susan L. Leary (Trio House Press 2024).
Were God a Boy or a River Makes No Difference
Every boy is ancient & a river is as much a body as it is a pair of hands. Who holds the blade that fails
against the rush? What within the boy dissolves every trace of violence? The river speaks a name & a soft halo of sun
hovers over steel. The sun is gentle on the boy’s face. Which is preferred? That each dawn be new light or the same
light remerged for centuries. Strange metaphor for a resilient self. Even the wind appears reckless in its bloom-scattering
tantrums yet when a boy drowns, we never think to ask if the river meant to do it. The river is but river stretching
on for miles & the boy returns home a small god walking through fields. Until, there is no more light. Until, the stakes
of the ritual are so high the river can only mourn itself. The brain placed back inside the stomach & a pair of new
hands folded over a corpse. How does the boy come to know himself now? Whose name does he cry out over the wide,
rippling shoulders of the living? Mine, yours, his own, the troubled sun’s—for whom does it even matter?
Susan L. Leary (she/her) is the author of SENTENCE (Nine Syllables Press, fall 2026), selected by Eugenia Leigh as the winner of the Nine Syllables Press Chapbook Contest; More Flowers(Trio House Press, February 2026); and Dressing the Bear (Trio House Press, 2024), selected by Kimberly Blaeser as the winner of the Louise Bogan Award. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in such places as Indiana Review, North American Review, Third Coast, Cream City Review, Smartish Pace, The Arkansas International, and Verse Daily. She holds an MFA from the University of Miami and lives in Indianapolis, IN.
t.r. san is a poet and translator currently based on Gadigal land, with recent work found in minor literature[s], The Cincinnati Review, HAD, Smokelong Quarterly, The Offing, &c. read & reach @thoushallkill on Twitter, or trsan.neocities.org.
To be mothered by a poetry book about mothering is a unique experience, gained by reading The Mothers by Erika Eckart (Finishing Line Press 2025). Each section of this book is immersive, tugging at your heart, your soul, your past, and your future. What immediately drew me in was the title alone. Simple yet evocative, The Mothers. With so many connotations, so many interpretive trajectories, a title like this invites you on a journey with an unpredictable outcome, one that is expressive and enticing nonetheless, tugging at your heart, your soul, your past, and your future. What immediately drew me in was the title alone. Simple yet evocative, The Mothers. With so many connotations, so many interpretive trajectories, a title like this invites you on a journey with an unpredictable outcome, one that is expressive and enticing nonetheless..
The beginning of the book focuses on the bond between a child and their mother. This connection is which is formed by birth and the umbilical cord—cut, yet still connected in spirit. Eckart focuses on the processes of becoming; the process of becoming oneself apart from being a mother or a child. In the first poem, “Mycelium” Eckart writes, “I can’t figure out where I end and my children begin.” This reflection sets the tone for the book, inviting everyone to explore their own connections with where they come from, who they are, and who they are becoming.
Towards the middle, Eckart pulls towards motherhood being expressed as hungry. With titles such as “Teeth” and “Gluttony” Eckart makes it known how motherhood can feel, and how it can be experienced. In “Teeth” particularly, the lines, “you are reminded how your babies leeched your bones to make theirs, how they hollowed you out” are chilling. The choice of words “leeched” and “hollowed” shift focus to the effect of being a mother, what becomes of her through this life-creating and life-changing process—a perspective that is often left out. The choice of a more haunting metaphor evokes a sense of fear, yet also a realization, that can come from motherhood. Utilizing such language helps express these feelings and experiences to those unfamiliar with them, as everyone, in some way or another, has encountered fear. In “Natural Causes” Eckart focuses not only on the effect of motherhood, but also accurately focuses on the parts one has to give up. She uses the figure of a mother octopus, prioritizing how she will never eat again in order to breed and guard their eggs. This, once again, is a shift in focus that caught my attention. A representation of another side or feeling of motherhood that is often normalized or romanticized, rather than critically examined.
In the last section, Eckart includes the narrator’s reflection on her own motherhood. What struck me the most was the short fiction section, “Adaptation.” Eckart tackles the burden of genes, the passing down of traits and suffering. She suggests that these elements cannot be stripped from one’s DNA. This sense of inheritance leaves one “bruised at the edges” and implies that, if one chooses to have children, these burdens will inevitably be passed on. She follows this up, saying, “Your genes take these secret messages about the past to your future,” which, to me, is a beautiful way of linking those who came before you with those who will come after. The Mothers is an experience that is almost impossible to put into words. It pulls you to think about the past, the future, and how you use the present. Eckart offers up a different perspective on motherhood without shame, inviting mothers to express their frustrations and concerns.
Brianna “Bree” Eaton (she/her) is sophomore studying English with a concentration in Publishing and Creative Writing at the University of Tennessee, where she also serves on the Phoenix Magazine Staff. Born and raised in East Tennessee, she enjoys all things neo-applachian, cryptic, and feminist. When she isn’t doing school work, editing, writing, or running circles around campus, she can be found reading, re-watching episodes of the X-Files, or planning last minute trips to new (or familiar) cities.
This selection, chosen by Guest Editor t.r. san, is from Dressing the Bear by Susan L. Leary (Trio House Press 2024).
The Professor Asks Me to Write a Joyful Poem
One without drugs or sadness or mention of your death. One in which you don’t beat your fists bloody against a palm. I am disobedient as is joy as is you, as is the better version of the truth that lives inside the defense. Is it more profound to say walking towards or walking away? Somehow, with me, you’re always doing both: forgetting the air mattress & your Greyhound ticket, then forgetting to breathe. Is forgetfulness a form of joy or of disobedience? The day I forgot the plunger at Ace Hardware was the day you forgot to put my car in park. You were fifteen, so my fault, but as the car rolled nearer the storefront, we laughed through the panic because joy is you is disobedience is me, is the weather we last looked upon your face. A shit storm, you’d have said, as we ran out to the parking lot, pelted by the sky’s sadness & with nothing for a shield, while I was thinking how nice it would have been to spend a day with you in the rain.
Susan L. Leary (she/her) is the author of SENTENCE (Nine Syllables Press, fall 2026), selected by Eugenia Leigh as the winner of the Nine Syllables Press Chapbook Contest; More Flowers(Trio House Press, February 2026); and Dressing the Bear (Trio House Press, 2024), selected by Kimberly Blaeser as the winner of the Louise Bogan Award. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in such places as Indiana Review, North American Review, Third Coast, Cream City Review, Smartish Pace, The Arkansas International, and Verse Daily. She holds an MFA from the University of Miami and lives in Indianapolis, IN.
t.r. san is a poet and translator currently based on Gadigal land, with recent work found in minor literature[s], The Cincinnati Review, HAD, Smokelong Quarterly, The Offing, &c. read & reach @thoushallkill on Twitter, or trsan.neocities.org.
This selection, chosen by Guest Editor t.r. san, is an excerpt from Apostasies by Holli Carrell (Perugia Press 2025).
Content Warning: domestic violence or child abuse
EXHIBIT
Waking to a hand around my neck, I wasn’t surprised. Violence seemed a certain inevitability. Mundane
as a mother’s command, her hands
twisting and plaiting my hair. Was I even in my body? I try to examine that moment
from here, like a picture in a museum:
myself, barely past girl, so estranged from my body. A little broken in the mind, too, some plate inside shattered.
(It didn’t even seem like my choice to make.)
How I just laid there, and was lucky as his hand released, slipped off, nothing worse—a bird lifting off a window ledge.
Holli Carrell (she/they) was born and raised in Salt Lake City, Utah and now lives in the Midwest, where she recently completed her PhD in Creative Writing with a Graduate Certificate in Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies at the University of Cincinnati. A 2024-2025 Taft Research Center Dissertation Fellow, her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Gulf Coast, The North American Review, 32 Poems, Poetry Northwest, Ninth Letter, The Journal, Bennington Review, and Salt Hill, among other journals.
t.r. san is a poet and translator currently based on Gadigal land, with recent work found in minor literature[s], The Cincinnati Review, HAD, Smokelong Quarterly, The Offing, &c. read & reach @thoushallkill on Twitter, or trsan.neocities.org.
This selection, chosen by Guest Editor t.r. san, is an excerpt from Apostasies by Holli Carrell (Perugia Press 2025).
I WATCHED BOYS
I knew the lightless spot was not a place to play—
where the starved cottonwood bared its rooty teeth, tending
to a slush of spiders and leaves, near the shadowed murky stream
where mosquitos bred and bred, and the ruby-
fattened females dropped their rafts of eggs
before falling to the mossy stones.
In that dim, musty spot, I hid, watched older boys
peel clothes from their bodies. Free, at night, they glowed
like pale cream, and I knew I shouldn’t look
at what hung below their bellies in matted swamps of hair:
it was ugly. I wasn’t surprised.
Holli Carrell (she/they) was born and raised in Salt Lake City, Utah and now lives in the Midwest, where she recently completed her PhD in Creative Writing with a Graduate Certificate in Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies at the University of Cincinnati. A 2024-2025 Taft Research Center Dissertation Fellow, her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Gulf Coast, The North American Review, 32 Poems, Poetry Northwest, Ninth Letter, The Journal, Bennington Review, and Salt Hill, among other journals.
t.r. san is a poet and translator currently based on Gadigal land, with recent work found in minor literature[s], The Cincinnati Review, HAD, Smokelong Quarterly, The Offing, &c. read & reach @thoushallkill on Twitter, or trsan.neocities.org.
Ayo Deforge’s second adult novel, Under the Rain (Witsprouts Books 2025), is a second-chance romance novel set in stormy Lagos, Nigeria. Spanning from childhood to adulthood, the story follows two lovers, Bolaji and Shola, who have been torn apart by diverging aspirations, but time ultimately brings them back together. With two weeks before Shola returns to the United States of America for good, the story invites readers to question whether the possibility of a life together is worth giving up all that they have built while apart. Taking place in both the past and present, the novel also functions as an examination of the lived experiences and sociopolitical realities of those affected by sickle cell anemia.
Part One of Under the Rain is set in the present. Told from the perspective of middle-aged Bolaji, the reader follows him as he returns to his childhood hometown with his wife, Yetunde, and their children. A prolific medical professional, he is outspoken and knowledgeable, seemingly having it all. Yet, there is an undercurrent of dissatisfaction in his life, most evident in the discomfort within his romantic relationship, which the opening pages present through the aftermath of a sexual encounter. While the scene is intended to showcase Bolaji’s apathy towards his wife, it made me want to know more about her character and the cultural expectations surrounding her. After all, so much of this book goes beyond a simple romance and treads into social commentary on the human experience.
However, much of this apparent dissatisfaction is almost immediately swept away by an idyllic “what if” scenario.
What if the love of your life showed up in your hometown? What if you still were in love with them? What if the feeling was mutual? What if what once existed could be recreated?
Chapter 2 opens with immediate narrative momentum. From the moment Shola returns to Lagos, the couple falls back into stride, learning more about each other’s current lives and confessing their lingering feelings. The reader, thus, is swept into a whirlwind second-chance romance that paves the way for the rest of the story.
The novel’s heightened drama creates immediate interest for Part Two, when the book returns to the past to trace how the pair found each other, fell in love, and eventually fell apart. Although this glorious romance lies at the heart of the book, their story is often colored by tragedy—in particular, Bolaji’s brother Bamidele’s diagnosis with sickle cell anemia. What Deforge ultimately constructs is a tension-filled, introspective drama centred on grief, growth, and the decisions that alter a life.
The novel’s treatment of sickle cell anemia is what truly captivated me. It is introspective, empathetic, and grounded. During the early years of Bolaji’s life, I found myself compelled by his experience as a caretaker for his brother, a relationship that mirrors my childhood experience taking care of ill and disabled family members.
The reader can sense the weight borne by both him and his younger brother, particularly in passages such as:
“Since that day, Bamidele had never broached the subject of death again, and Bolaji had never tried to speak to him about it. After all, what did he himself truly understand about death?” (Deforge, 20)
The depth provided by this secondary narrative affords the novel an urgent sense of topical vitality. The health-related storyline was handled in broad strokes, but the risk of including more intricate, layered themes eventually paid off. In terms of narrative development, Bamidele’s story provides a direct, yet meaningful framework for understanding Bolaji’s career trajectory while also laying the groundwork for later tensions. It was the first spark of genuine empathy I felt for his character.
As the novel progresses into its later chapters, the reader is presented with more emotionally charged moments, heartfelt declarations, and romantic development. Alongside this, the narrative reveals a wider breadth of trauma and conflict shaping the characters’ lives, including familial violence and death. Gradually, as the plot transitions between the past and the present, a more nuanced understanding emerges of why Bolaji and Shola had previously broken up. Most notably, both characters discover that they are carriers of the sickle cell anemia trait.
When reflecting on their past relationship, Bolaji thinks, “Allowing their passion to reignite would only inflict harm upon others. Like a volcanic eruption, nothing in its vicinity would remain unscathed.” (Deforge, 88)
Bolaji’s internal conflict regarding their diagnosis adds nuance to the story, proving Deforge’s commitment to highlighting complicated and difficult stories. The protagonist’s fears operate on two levels: concern for their health, particularly in relation to starting a family, and the potential disruption of their existing lives with their respective families.
While I felt that, by the end of this book, more empathy could have been extended to Bolaji’s wife, I cannot deny the importance of the conversation around sickle cell anemia. For this reason, this book can be considered innovative, including its open engagement with reproductive rights. Deforge is to be applauded for constructing a work with significant social stakes while operating within the conventions of a genre that rarely foregrounds such themes.
Reina Maiden-Navarro is an editor, writer, and photographer. She recently graduated from UC Irvine with a degree in Film & Media Studies and a minor in Creative Writing, cum laude. She also works as an Editor at Prompt and an Outreach Coordinator at Bookstr. If she is not reading or writing, she can be found traveling, painting, or baking cookies.
I have what I like to call a “traveling bookshelf.” I go back and forth between my home and school quite often, and when I am not busy, which is rare, I try to travel as much as I can. Because of this, I have found myself losing track of my books, gaining new ones with no space to store them, and “lending” them out to people with no desire of getting them back.
So, I have accumulated my “traveling bookshelf.” A collection of 5 previously read books and an empty space for 4 new and un-read books that sit on my bedside table regardless of if I am at home, school, or on vacation.
You might be wondering, based on the picture I have attached with this blog, which ones are my 5 keeps and which ones are my 4 newbies. To start, Moments of Being, A Room Of One’s Own, To The Lighthouse, and How Should One Read a Book by Virginia Woolf. I know, I don’t have a favorite author at all. I keep these in my collection for varying reasons. Moments of Being is a classic to me. It is a collection, with stories of various lengths, themes, and characters, perfect for a pick me up or a phone break. Some of them I’ve read 10 times, some of them one. Next, A Room of One’s Own, my little secret diary of sorts, with annotations spanning back to junior year of high school. To The Lighthouse is my difficult child; I took on this reading challenge with a friend a few years back, understood it the best I could, and am hyping myself up for the challenge again. Last in Brianna Eaton’s Virginia Woolf fanclub is How Should One Read a Book, a quick reminder when I am stressed on why I love what I do and why it is important that I continue doing it. And finally, my baby, my claim to niche fame, is Written on the Body by Jeanette Winterson. A classic in my heart, and an example of what I hope my writing can someday resemble.
Now, my 4 newbies for this new semester, fresh off the print (probably not) are Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald, Rebecca by Daphne De Maurier, Mansfield Park by Jane Austen and Paper Girl by Beth Macy. Fitzgerald and Austen are repeat offenders in my book prison. I haven’t finished a book by either of them since high school. Maybe it’s academic fatigue or maybe having read their best books when I am in high school will create unrealistic expectations on what the rest of their books would look like, but I have struggled to get through these authors the past few years. Rebecca, and more specifically Daphne De Maurier is completely new to my eyes. Paper Girl by Beth Macy was a christmas gift and the sales pitch my friend gave me for it was enough to get me hooked before I even tried it.
Of course, this traveling bookshelf will change as frequently as my interests do (which is a lot). I’m sure I will randomly become obsessed with one, and then beg one of my friends to read it. After which I will ultimately deny them giving it back to me, so they may too create their own traveling bookshelf in which they collect and prioritize books of their own. And maybe after this, you, reader, will as well.
Brianna “Bree” Eaton (she/her) is sophomore studying English with a concentration in Publishing and Creative Writing at the University of Tennessee, where she also serves on the Phoenix Magazine Staff. Born and raised in East Tennessee, she enjoys all things neo-applachian, cryptic, and feminist. When she isn’t doing school work, editing, writing, or running circles around campus, she can be found reading, re-watching episodes of the X-Files, or planning last minute trips to new (or familiar) cities.
The bookshelf in my room contains different literary genres and book forms—manga, graphic novels, poetry, fiction, and nonfiction. Many of these books center on diverse characters, histories, and cultures, or are written by authors from traditionally marginalized communities. I have always enjoyed reading global literature and stories that highlight underrepresented voices. Growing up as a queer and first-generation Bangladeshi-American in small-town North Carolina, I actively sought out books where I could see identities and experiences like mine in the pages, as well as books that taught me about different time periods and regions of the world.
The top shelf is dedicated to my manga and graphic novel collection, which mostly consists of shoujo and josei manga (genres that explore the experiences and perspectives of girls and women), queer and yuri/GL (Girls’ Love) manga, and queer and feminist comics and graphic novels. As a teenager exploring her queer identity, comics like Lumberjanes and manga like Bloom into You were some of the first stories I read that showed wholesome, positive representation of queer and sapphic teenage characters and relationships. Coming from a South Asian household and a small, conservative high school, it comforted me to see BIPOC and Asian queer characters who could be happy, loved, and even fall in love.
The bottom shelf holds YA and literary fiction, nonfiction, and poetry books. My favorite reads have tended to lean towards historical fiction, or books that address social and historical issues, such as war, gender-based violence, and racial discrimination and oppression.
For instance, Between Shades of Gray by Ruta Sepetys follows Lina, a Lithuanian teenage girl and artist who is arrested alongside her family and deported to a Siberian labor camp under Stalin’s regime. I first read this book in the seventh grade and it opened my eyes to a chapter of World War II history that I did not see often in YA or children’s historical fiction. This was also the first time I had read a book for young readers that did not censor or avoid talking about the cruelty and violence of war, and the generational trauma it leaves behind. Sepetys’s writing style Between Shades of Gray became a key inspiration for my own YA story on the Bangladesh Liberation War of 1971.
Khaled Hosseini’s A Thousand Splendid Suns traces the intertwined lives of two Afghan women, Mariam and Laila, their bond, and their experiences facing war, patriarchy, and domestic violence from the 1960s to the early 2000s. As you can see from its well-worn condition, I’ve read this book more times than I can count. Hosseini’s ability to weave Afghanistan’s history into the narrative and illustrate the country’s cultural heritage, social structures, and sociopolitical issues is something I deeply admire. Coming from a Muslim family myself, I could also relate to Mariam and Laila’s stories on a personal level, such as their relationships with their families and the patriarchal systems around them.
One of the things I noticed while reading different YA and literary historical fiction books was that there were not many that focused on South Asian history, and more specifically Bangladeshi history. This quest led me to pursue a Special Studies in creative writing during my senior year at Smith College, where I conducted academic and literary research in order to write a YA historical fiction set in Bangladesh. The Song of Our Swampland by Manzu Islam was one of the books that I read and referred to in my project. What makes this book especially interesting is that, compared to how much of the English-language nonfiction and fiction on Bangladesh is based on the city center of Dhaka, this book looks at the progression of the war and development of the independence movement from the perspective of rural and marginalized communities in the region. As a Bangladeshi-American born and raised in the United States, reading The Song of Our Swampland and working on this creative writing project was impactful for me because it helped me to learn more about my family’s country of heritage and understand the nuances within collective memories of war.
This bookshelf only represents a portion of all the books in my collection. After my parents and I moved from Cary to Holly Springs, North Carolina, many of my books are scattered all around the house. The children’s books I grew up with, ranging from The School for Good and Evil to Faith, Hope, and Ivy June, take up three out of four shelves on a bookshelf in the garage (the last shelf holds my father’s chemistry books and Bengali-language books). Having recently finished my master’s thesis in Global Development, my academic books on development theory and practice, gender, and Bangladeshi and South Asian history are piled on my work desk, while the British and postcolonial literature, confessional poetry books, and creative writing books I used in my English degree are sitting on a small shelf right behind me. Each of these books has shaped me into the reader, researcher, and person I am today.
Tara Rahman (she/her) is a Sundress editorial intern with a BA in English Language and Literature from Smith College and an MSc in Global Development from SOAS, University of London. She is also a recent graduate of the Columbia Publishing Course in Oxford, UK. With a strong interest in culture, identity, and global history, her personal writing often focuses on intersectionality and the untold stories and experiences of marginalized communities. In her free time, she enjoys reading literary and YA fiction, watching anime, and spending time with her tripod cat, Tuntuni.
This selection, chosen by Guest Editor t.r. san, is an excerpt from Apostasies by Holli Carrell (Perugia Press 2025).
PATTERNS
The church I was born and raised in has always observed a selective history. As a girl, I am taught to view facts with suspicion. A fact is always suspect, secondary to faith, negligible.
In 2014, the Mormon (LDS) church publicly disclosed for the first time that Joseph Smith—the founder of the “only true and living church”—married “between 30 and 40 wives” during his lifetime. This admission from the organization’s all-male leadership came after a century of denying the fact.
The total number of Joseph Smith’s wives rises or falls like algebraic sums depending on what you consider a reliable source. For the LDS church, valid voices and testimonies only come from those who believe.
I, a nonbelieving woman, will forever be unreliable.
Holli Carrell (she/they) was born and raised in Salt Lake City, Utah and now lives in the Midwest, where she recently completed her PhD in Creative Writing with a Graduate Certificate in Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies at the University of Cincinnati. A 2024-2025 Taft Research Center Dissertation Fellow, her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Gulf Coast, The North American Review, 32 Poems, Poetry Northwest, Ninth Letter, The Journal, Bennington Review, and Salt Hill, among other journals.
t.r. san is a poet and translator currently based on Gadigal land, with recent work found in minor literature[s], The Cincinnati Review, HAD, Smokelong Quarterly, The Offing, &c. read & reach @thoushallkill on Twitter, or trsan.neocities.org.
