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An Interview with Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo, Author of An Interview with Fear

A sage green book cover with the large heading reading "Craft Chaps" at the very center top. Below the heading is the book's title, "An Interview with Fear" in golden yellow font, and beneath the title is the author's name, Xochilt-Julisa Bermejo. The cover features an 8x6 grid of green squares gradually transitioning into a lighter shade of green and developing rounded edges as they reach the bottom edge of the cover.

Upon the release of her craft chap essay, An Interview with Fear, author Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo spoke with Sundress Publications editorial intern Rachel Bulman on political memory, the difference between monuments and memorials, the sensitive nature of writing about others’ grief, and what it means to write in community with those you love.

Rachel Bulman: How did you decide the structure of the text and the balance of chronology? 

Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo: I was on residency at Jentel in Wyoming when I wrote this essay. Being in residency gave me many unobstructed hours to read and think, which allowed me space to excavate my memories differently and to expand beyond one experience in one place and one  time. For example, I was reading Melissa Febos’ Body Work. In her essay, “A Big Shitty Party,” she writes, “When I think of narrative truth—the truth that lies beyond the verifiable facts of an  event—I picture a prism, with as many facets as there are people affected. When a writer chooses  to publish their version, the facet becomes the one visible beyond the scope of people involved… It is hideously unfair.” (95) While I was writing about a residency at Gettysburg National Military Park in Pennsylvania and the racism and war glorification I experienced there, Febos’  words encouraged me to think beyond Gettysburg to a story about a friend’s grief and Assistens Cemetery in Copenhagen. It also allowed me to ask my friend for permission to write about her, which I’d never done before.  

RB: The reflections in this piece are not solely from time spent on your residency, so how do they reflect a wider experience of your life as a whole? 

XJB: While composing this essay, what came to the surface was the connection of public places for memory and monument. Being a poet in residence at Gettysburg was a strange experience. It’s a battleground and cemetery. Over 50,000 people died over a three-day battle. I was living on hallowed ground, but it’s also a museum. While death changes and transforms all things,  Gettysburg is insistent on not changing. That’s kind of what we’ve been facing as a nation. There  are people desperate for change. It’s a matter of life and death, but the powers that be want to  keep the status quo. While I was in Gettysburg, I felt a lot of fear and confusion. Being able to compare it to another public place of death and memorial helped me better understand why I was there in the first place. In the end, I’ve learned that I grow and change from the experience of knowing the women in my life, from honoring my ancestors, and from honoring the ancestors of  my sisters. I’m grateful for the experience gifting me this new understanding of myself and the world.  

RB: At what point in the writing process did you reach your conclusion on the purpose of facing fear; not just to understand but to overcome?  

XJB: Writing is about process for me. I don’t know where a piece will go when I start it. I have an idea. I have something I want to write about—a lesson, an experience, a memory—but the why presents itself through the writing. I would have never made the connection between death and transformation, or the difference between monuments and memorials, if it weren’t for being in residency at Jentel and having all that time to read and think, and to try something new. It’s  what I love about residencies. They let you be brave.  

RB: Of the myriad themes and takeaways from this book, why did you decide to conclude on the transformational power of love?

XJB: It’s what I write about. It’s who I am, or who I want to be, at my core. I recently had a near-death experience (sounds dramatic, but true), and rereading this essay made me realize that my work, what I do, prepared me to meet this newest scary moment with some tools, as small as they were. I just hope I can help other people know that love is always there if they need it. There are so many scary things happening in our world, but what matters, I think, at least today, is how we meet the moment and stay open to what’s possible through care, comfort, and love.  

RB: As is clear in the opening, you don’t shy away from political commentary in the text. Was  there anything you chose to omit from the book, or anything you included but had reservations about? Why? 

XJB: I’ve always been outspoken. I don’t know. I was a teen in the ‘90s, and everything I read and watched told me to be outspoken. It’s only recently that I’ve started to think more about how I speak about current events, especially in interviews like this, because interviews are perceived  differently, and you don’t always know what parts will be used. But when it comes to my art, when it comes to crafting and composing, I will always be outspoken and say what I want to say in the most beautiful way I can. 

RB: Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address is described as a reason you applied for the residency, but in what ways, if at all, did its contents and message influence this book, or you, as you were writing? 

XJB: Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address was all I knew about Gettysburg when I first went. It’s a marker of my naiveté in the situation. Again, I grew up idolizing Lincoln, King, X. I loved John Lennon. I watched A Different World and The Wonder Years. Newsies was one of my favorite movies. I was either going to be a hippie or a union organizer. My senior year of high school, I was reading books about the Chicano Movement. My freshman year of college at San Francisco State, I attended my first police brutality rallies. I grew up thinking we all wanted a just world,  but seeing what’s happened to our country in the last 10 years has been a great shock to my  sixteen-year-old self. The Gettysburg Address is a symbol of that tragedy.  

RB: You say “Monuments are men’s work. Memorializing, women’s.” Can you speak further to this end, and the gendered divide you observed during your residency? 

XJB: Of course, this is a generalization, but it seems to me that patriarchies only care about keeping power, and often through intimidation. Monuments are not for remembering good works. Monuments are for keeping the populace in line. They are stone examples of “Big Brother,” if you will. On the other end of the spectrum, matriarchies are about mutual aid and community care. Memorials are about honoring those who came before us that made today (and tomorrow) possible. They’re about creating space for care. 

RB: In terms of pushing back against fear with comfort and community, could you talk more about how you felt equipped to face the ghosts, so to speak, at the Klingel House?

XJB: For one, I don’t do anything alone. Any story or poem I write, any publication, any award or opportunity, is only made possible by the support I receive from my family and my  community. I write in community. I submit in community. Gettysburg was the same way. I was very scared, but thankfully, there were people in my life willing to hold that fear with me. A friend drove me to Gettysburg and stayed the night. Two other friends travelled from New York City on separate weekends. I like to think of myself as an independent person. I like to wander  away from the crowd and see what happens when I turn the corner away from everyone, but I can only do that because I know my people are watching me go. I’m never too far out of reach.  

RB: The text engages head-on with fear, but what were some of the fears you faced while  writing it? 

XJB: The biggest fear I had was how to write about other people and the opportunity as a whole. The residency was an award and a gift, so it’s a tricky situation. You don’t want to bite the hand,  and all. But I also have to honor my truth, so how do I do that in the most respectful way? And then there are the other people in the story. Usually, when I write, I go tunnel vision into my own  perspective. It’s mine after all—don’t I own it? But this time I wanted to practice another tactic. It’s scary to try something new. It was difficult to ask my friend for permission to write about something extremely painful that happened to her. Thankfully, she supports my writing and was grateful for her and her son to be included.  

RB: Could you speak to the inclusion of the “Interview with Fear” workbook at the end of the text, and how a reader should approach the tasks? 

XJB: Typically, these craft chap series include prompts. I thought it would be fun to include the activities I use in class, and to make it more like a workbook. I encourage writers to try them, and I encourage teachers to think about how to incorporate them in their classes. Writing is scary! One thing I hope this craft chapbook shows is that there are ways of making the act of writing a little more comforting and fun. 

An Interview with Fear is available to download on the Sundress website now

A headshot of a Chicana woman looking off wistfully to her right side. She wears a silver pendant necklace, an elegant black top, has black curly hair that is graying at the roots, and she stands against a completely black background.

Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo is the daughter of Mexican immigrants and a Chicana poet, educator, and community organizer. She is the author of Incantation: Love Poems for Battle Sites and Posada: Offerings of Witness and Refuge. Her poem “Battlegrounds” was featured in Poem-a-Day, On Being’s Poetry Unbound, and in the anthology, Poetry Unbound: 50 Poems to Open Your World, highlighting her growing national recognition. Inspired by her Chicana identity and her experiences as an activist, Bermejo’s work seeks to cultivate love, resilience, and comfort in chaotic times while amplifying marginalized voices. 

The side profile of a pale-skinned woman wearing glasses and a grey baseball cap as she looks off to her right side. In the background is a scenic body of water, greenery on the horizon line, and a clear blue sky.

Rachel Bulman (she/her) holds a BA in English and Creative Writing as well as an MA in Publishing from the University of Exeter, specialising in interactive and children’s fiction. Her written work, from non-fiction to poetry, script and prose, has appeared in Wolf Grove Media’s The Book of Choices, Velvet Fields, and Exeposé, among others. Find her eclectic portfolio on Instagram @worm.can.read, through her online portfolio, or ask the bridge troll who taught him his riddles three.

Sundress Reads: Review of The Dog Who Wanted to be a Butterfly

Heather Sanderson’s The Dog Who Wanted to be a Butterfly is a wonderful, creative, and uplifting children’s story that ultimately reminds us to dream big, and that love can be found for who we once were as well as who we become. A dip into the whimsy often absent from adult life, the charming story of Franklin, the dog, creates an imaginative space to welcome the magic of childlike ambitions. The underlying theme of embracing who you are is something children and adults alike can appreciate. Playful illustrations by Gérome Barry stick with you even after the story ends, building the colorful world of Franklin and complementing the enchantment this story invites you into.

Sanderson is very open about her spiritual journey and the importance of healing. These foundational ideas are woven into her prose, even in a light-hearted children’s book, where the compelling pull of finding oneself is explored through the lens of a dog, Franklin. Franklin, based on the real dog with whom the author is well acquainted, goes on a journey to become a butterfly. He starts by asking his human sister, Amelia, who instructs him, “Da ca bo bo.” These deep words of wisdom were, of course, interpreted by Franklin as “you need to eat chicken bones”—which he immediately set out to do. However, when this did not successfully turn him into a butterfly, he had to seek another source. He asked his dog friend, Daphne, if she knew how he could become a butterfly, and she told him to run up three stairs and jump down one hundred times. This exhausted him, and he began to lose hope, until he actually encountered a real butterfly.

The butterfly told him that in order to turn into one, he needed to lick a pink pineapple three times. However, finding one proved more difficult than Franklin expected; he almost gave up when, while at a restaurant with his family, he found a pink pineapple sitting right on their table. Each lick became a realization for Franklin. He was struck by how much he actually loved his family and his life as a dog. Although this did not stop him from desiring to fly through the clouds and float over flowers, it shifted his perspective of who he already is. It was at this moment that his wish changed: he no longer wanted to be just a butterfly. He wanted to be both a dog and a butterfly. So, on the third lick, that is exactly what he became. Thus, the last page of the story concludes with, “He always flew back home to his people who loved him whether he was a dog, or a butterfly, or a dog-erfly. And he loved them.”

Accompanied by the unique, cartoonish illustrations in a distinctive style, the story’s end comes to life in a vibrant way. I wanted to jump into the pages, imagining how I would fit into it, that perhaps my goals and aspirations will come true if I channel my inner butterfly, or my inner Franklin. On his journey, Franklin discovers that transformation can mean letting go of who you once were to become an even greater version of yourself, and this ends up being an emotional turn that he did not originally expect. This end to Franklin’s expedition is a pivotal moment and also my personal favorite. Sanderson illustrates such a deeply significant message in a light, accessible way so that children can easily understand it and be inspired. This is something that permeates my emotions as I read, as an adult who still needs reminders of self-love. More importantly, the final sentence, “And he loved them,” says something even more profound about this journey. It is not just who loves you, but who you love in return. Who would you always fly back home to?

The emphasis on love and on seeing your dreams not just as magic but as reality, is a necessary change in perspective and a joyful experience to be immersed in. The motif of a butterfly, in the way that a caterpillar transforms, can seem overdone. Yet, this book is a completely fresh take on what it means to transform, and the significance of finding yourself through change, both in who loves you and in whom you love. And, of course, because there was no caterpillar in this story, our caterpillar was a dog! Heather Sanderson’s The Dog Who Wanted to be a Butterfly is a story that encourages you not to stay confined within your mind  but to stretch the bounds of your imagination and bring something of it back home with you—to share that we are capable of making dreams come true and of finding our people, the way that Franklin did, who will love us regardless of what we become.

Order your copy of The Dog Who Wanted to Be a Butterfly today!

Abigail Palmer (she/her) is a current English student at the University of Tennessee. Born in the North but raised in the South, she has always had a place in the in-between of things. In between reader and writer, student and teacher, chronically ill and healthy–she is seeking to defy such labels to become whoever, wherever, however she desires to be. That currently looks like a preschool teacher, beloved (of course) daughter, adored (obviously) girlfriend, up-and-coming cat mom, and a forever nominee of the “Super Opinionated” award. If she’s not incessantly analyzing every piece of media she consumes, she’s probably intellectualizing her feelings while making ultra specific playlists that no one can relate to but her! You can find her on Instagram @zer0cooll.

Project Bookshelf: Nafisa Hussain

I have the smallest room in my house, meaning that I hardly have any storage. Last summer, I ordered a £50 bookshelf from IKEA and practically forced it into the little box that is my bedroom. I moved things around, sacrificed clothing space, and somehow it worked. Organising the books was a mess of its own. It took me a few days since I was so overwhelmed. Do I organise them by genre or by how often I reach for them? Even now, when I look at the bookshelf on my right, I get a tad confused, and it takes me a while to find the book I want to read.

The only link I can make out from my top shelf is that those stories revolve around people, from Sally Rooney to confessions of a forty-something f##k up. I also have books that were either recommended to me or given as a gift. Think Like an Anthropologist was provided to me on my very first day of lectures as a first-year university student. Everyday Sexism was gifted to my entire class by my drama teacher on my last day of sixth form. The Full Diet was recommended to me by my doctor. How to Job Search in Book Publishing was recommended to me during ‘Publishing Week’, where I was desperate to find insights on how to get a role in the Publishing Industry.

My second shelf contains the classics – and the Bridgerton series. I binged season 1 when it was released and immediately bought the series. Jane Eyre, Little Women, Pride and Prejudice, Persuasion, The Great Gatsby, Anna Karenina, The Picture of Dorian Gray… All stories that I had zero interest in during English class, but immediately sought out during my early 20s.

It is no secret that my favourite genre is fantasy. To be able to escape to something so different, where there are different worlds, magics and powers, is my favourite pastime. I have two shelves dedicated to this genre – with a splash of dystopian worlds. From ACOTAR to the Shadow and Bone series, Hafsah Faizal and the Shatter Me series. And of course, the classic Hunger Games series. My fourth shelf also contains books that just truly hurt. Although I know what happens in A Thousand Splendid Suns, As the Lemon Trees Grow, and Alchemised – I cannot bring myself forward to read them just yet, for fear of just breaking my heart.

My final shelf contains classic YA and mystery books. I have not read many mystery stories (I know myself well enough that, although I would enjoy the plot, I would also get incredibly frustrated with myself for not figuring it out sooner). But Twilight is the book that I probably reach out for the most on this shelf, simply because one of my friends is obsessed with it and is a vehement team-Jacob supporter.

Looking at my bookshelf, I am aware that I have not read the majority of my books. I used to feel embarrassed about it – about being so eager to buy new stories yet constantly only reaching for my comfort reads. But a few months ago, when I was in Waterstones, I had a discussion with this lovely bookseller. He confided in me that he had not read most of the books in his collection, but he also told me that it didn’t matter. His collection reflects what he wants to read, what he would like to explore and open his mind and heart to. He told me that life can easily get in the way of getting into a good book, and that it was completely okay; that one day, when I was less stressed and busy, I would find the time to sit down with a nice cup of tea and a fresh read.

Nafisa Hussain (she/her) holds a BSc in Anthropology and Sociology from Brunel University, where she primarily focused her work on race issues in the UK. She has published book reviews in the Hillingdon Herald Newspaper and volunteers for the Books2Africa charity.

Meet Our New Intern: Rachel Bulman

In violation of the modern educational system, I learned to read before I could talk, apparently finding the written word far more interesting than trivial things like sleeping or learning to walk. I haven’t really stopped since. From Austen to Orwell, I know first-hand the power a good book has on a willing reader. Most importantly, I know the responsibility of publishers to curate and share good books. It’s a power that should be used to build communities and break down barriers. Publishers like Sundress Publications have all of the responsibility and none of the corporate funding – which is why what they do is so essential.

Another introduction for me might begin: ‘Hello, my name is Rachel and I am a writer’, which, though sensible (and a touch dry), seems like a strange thing to say without a novel to my name or a serious book deal, but is true, nonetheless. When I was seven and wrote a story about a tiger making friends with a princess, I was just as much a writer as I am now. It’s something that has taken me a long time to come to terms with, but if you write, that makes you a writer. Simple as that.

Since the story I wrote at seven years old, which I must confess was heavily inspired by Aladdin (1992), I’ve written a lot more. Lots during the COVID-19 lockdowns, and even more when I studied English and Creative Writing at the University of Exeter in the south of England. Writing is something that brings clarity and relief for me, and as far as I have experienced it, brings people together. Although we were no Inklings, I took a great amount of pleasure meeting with friends to plot and panic and write together – a practice we keep up to this day, only now it spans three continents and happens every third month.

Over the last few years, I have discovered I do my best writing when I am also doing lots of reading. Surprising no one, the two complement each other enormously well. As a result, I’ve been published in a number of magazines and anthologies, most significantly in the ENIGMA Literary Journal, where I also served as an editor for a few years while I was at university. It was here I realised how wonderful the impact of an editor can be – seeing a piece growing alongside its writer is enormously rewarding. Similarly, I co-edited and wrote a non-fiction text called UNESCO Cities of Literature during my MA, highlighting just a fraction of all the work UNESCO designated cities have done in recent years to promote literature. Just six months after the publication of the edition, it was wonderful to welcome ten new cities to the global network! Better still to recognise that the new designations reflect a less Eurocentric approach to literature, ushering in a more diverse and brilliant cohort of literary cities.

At the beginning of this year, I started a review page on Instagram as I try to explore other avenues of sharing literature with others. I take a certain enjoyment in reading books I have never heard of before, so please, if you have an obscure book from childhood or that you found in a local library, I would love to hear about it.

For me, interning for Sundress is another step in a lifetime of joyful reading, and I couldn’t be happier to carry this responsibility and share the words of such a talented and diverse cohort of authors. Here’s to a wonderful next six months!

Rachel Bulman looks left over the wide, blue Gard-Vaucluse river on a bright summer afternoon. 

Rachel Bulman (she/her) holds a BA in English and Creative Writing as well as an MA in Publishing from the University of Exeter, specialising in interactive and children’s fiction. Her written work, from non-fiction to poetry, script and prose, has appeared in Wolf Grove Media’s The Book of Choices, Velvet Fields, and Exeposé, among others. Find her eclectic portfolio on Instagram @worm.can.read, through her online portfolio, or ask the bridge troll who taught him his riddles three.

An Interview with Dani Janae, Author of Hound Triptych

Upon the release of her debut poetry collection, Hound Triptych, Dani Janae spoke with Sundress Publications editorial intern Reina Maiden-Navarro. Here, they discussed navigating the intersections of girlhood and motherhood as a Black adoptee, the legacies of trauma, loss, and grief, the process of rebuilding and reclaiming chosen identities, and the importance of love and forgiveness.

Reina Maiden-Navarro: Why did you choose to separate your collection into three sections, a “triptych”? How is it significant to the construction of a larger narrative?

Dani Janae: I’m not one to necessarily believe in numerology but the number three kept coming up as I was writing the poems in this book. There are three “Go Ask” poems and three sonnets. My mother’s birthday is in the third month of the year. Things just kept coming to me in threes, and I took that as a sign. I also think there was a temptation to divide the book into beginning, middle, and end, which I resisted. The three parts aren’t totally chronological, they are more divided by a theme.

The first section of the book is where I introduce the hound narrative. The second part is about inhabiting that narrative, and the third part seeks to deconstruct it.

RMN: Can you speak to the significance of hounds in your work?

DJ: When I realized that the poems I was writing were becoming a book, I started thinking about the title more seriously. I knew I wanted it to be “X Triptych” but thought “Dog Triptych” seemed lacking in specificity and didn’t quite capture the theme. Hound came to me as I was working through the physical search for my mother. Hounds are hunting dogs, they have sharp senses, some sight, some smell. In a sense, I was hunting for my mother, hunting for the truth of what her life was like and why she gave me up. Furthermore, because I had never met her, never seen her, my sense of her was entirely constructed out of myth. I imagined what she looked like, what her voice sounded like, what she would say when we met. I had built a whole sensory world for her by the time I found out her name.

Hounds are also quite physically striking, and one of the things I learned about my mother when looking for her was that she was a striking woman with “expressive eyes” as the poem in the book documents.

I spent my childhood hoping that I looked like her, that my features were hers, that I would grow into the beauty I imagined she was known for. This also informed how hounds came into the poems.

RMN: How does sobriety affect your approach to the subject of addiction?

DJ: First and most obvious is that if I wasn’t sober, I wouldn’t have been able to write these poems. I started writing loosely about my mother in college, when I first started looking for her. Those poems were frantic and often veered off topic because my heart was broken and I couldn’t face what I perceived as her rejecting me. I also was becoming a career drunk in college, and I was less concerned about writing beautiful poems and more concerned about my next high.

Being in active addiction takes a lot from you. Not only physically but mentally; I truly don’t think I had the mental or emotional capacity to write about my addiction while I was in the muck of it.

Secondly, I personally am firmly in the camp of only writing about addiction if you have experienced it yourself. If someone loves an addict, I think they can write about just that, but I wouldn’t want to read a book about addiction from a non-addict.

In the book, I say the corner tenet of my sobriety now is forgiveness, and forgiveness plays a big part in the book overall. When I was in active addiction, I wasn’t able to forgive anyone. Not my mother, not even myself. I was hellbent on the “get-back.” On suffering and making my pain plain to those around me. I wanted my mother to see how her giving me up for adoption had hurt me when I started searching for her at 18. When I revisited my search as a sober 31-year-old, I came to it with grace.

I also talk about grace a lot in the book. I think I had to give my mother grace in order to see her and myself clearly. I couldn’t hold on to the narrative that I had been abandoned without love any longer if I wanted to open my heart to knowing who she was.

RMN: How do naming dedications, individual poems, and a collection serve as a reclamation of chosen identity?

DJ: Wow this is a great question. My personal experience (and some readers may also have this experience) was one of having my identity imposed upon me. My adoptive mother told me who I was, and what she had to say was mostly negative. I was worthless, ugly, too emotional, too much in general.

In the poem “Call” I discuss this, how even despite years and distance, I still struggled to see myself outside of her vision of me. Writing this book brought me closer to full and flawed woman that was my biological mother, which brought me closer to the self I have been building all these years.

I had to teach my inner monologue to approach the self with loving kindness, and part of that is also having a spiritual life. I don’t believe in a Christian God, or any capital G God of organized religion anymore, but I do believe in a guiding force, a light, that moves through me. That light was covered when I was a child, and this book, this life I’ve built has kind of served as a great uncovering.

I also have had so many lovely people who have reflected back to me a loved version of myself. My brothers David and Dakota, my best friend Shanai, my friends and writing group members Cale and Diehl. If I didn’t have these things I would still be the abused, admonished child I knew growing up. She still lives inside of me, I don’t think that hurt will ever disappear, but I’ve become someone else around her, a protective force.

RMN: The poem “To Unlearn the Narrative of the Dog” has a direct address to the reader. What are you hoping to have readers contend with by giving them a name?

DJ: This is linked to question four, but I brought the reader into the poem at that moment because it is easy for me to let other people tell me who I am. In a sense, to perform for others approval and recognition. In “Adoptee Log #9” I talk about decentering the mother, and while having grace and respect for my mother was important for me and this book, I had to also let go of the idea that only she could tell me who I am.

“To Unlearn the Narrative of the Dog” is about just that, literally piecing myself together without worrying about how my mothers or my readers would perceive me.

RMN: What is the significance of Rita Dove as an influence in your writing, namely in Section III?

DJ: What Rita Dove does in her poems “Adolescences I” and “II” is capture this essence of not just girlhood, but Black girlhood, that I also wanted to bring into my work. I wanted to be able to do that without big red arrows pointing saying “THIS POEM IS ABOUT RACE.” I do have poems that are more directly about race in the book, but I loved the subtlety with which Dove approaches the subject in her poems.

I started reading her in college, specifically around the time I was writing my senior thesis, and I was immediately smitten and in awe of her work. The sharpness and expansiveness of the language she uses, especially in II were so important and influential for me.

RMN: How does the use of white space serve as its own vessel for communication and a reverberation of the theme of absence throughout your collection?

DJ: Having spent years not knowing my mother was, in a sense, a white space that permeated throughout my life. Sometimes it was apt to fill that white space with words, other times I had to let the starkness, the silence, speak for itself.

When I was little, I had a recurring dream where my biological mother showed up at my childhood home and demanded my adoptive mother unhand me and return me to my rightful home. In the dream, my mothers are yelling at each other, and I open my mouth, and nothing comes out.

The white space is this too, the things I could not say and the things I never said. To either of my mothers. I never got to tell Sarah I love her. I never got to tell my mom that raised me how she broke my heart. So much lives in that. It was important for me stylistically and emotionally to have that white space be a part of the collection.

RMN: Section II is entirely comprised of poems entitled “Adoptee Log [#1-10].” Tell us about your development in contending with the intersections of girlhood and motherhood as an adoptee.

DJ: For me, this section was vital. I wanted to describe the day to day yearning I experienced as a daughter, while also working through my thoughts on what it meant to be a mother. I am not a mother myself, but I knew I had to say what I had to say, and then leave room for compassion to flow through. I do have poems that express frustration, sadness, and heartache, but at the center of those poems too is a profound love for my mother, and an understanding of the difficulty in the decision she made.

Through therapy, I learned that adoptees especially tend to be more preoccupied with the mother figure than the father. There is a biological reasoning for this but also a social one. Mothers tend to take on most of the work of child rearing. There’s a popular video segment on a late-night television program where street interviewers ask fathers “who is your child’s pediatrician?” “What is the name of your daughter’s best friend?” These fathers can’t answer or get the answer wildly incorrect, even birthdays or other important milestones in a child’s life. Then, the mother comes on screen and gets a perfect score.

Yes, these interviews are cherry-picked and edited, but they also speak to something true. We put the brunt of the weight on mothers to know it all and do it all. So, when I was searching for my mother, I put the onus on her to heal the wounds that had been foisted upon me in my girlhood. This, of course, was very unfair. A big part of the collection is coming to admit that to myself and starting to see my mother as a full, realized human being who is not just the woman who gave birth to me, then let me go.

RMN: If your birth mother could read one poem from this collection, which one would you want it to be and why?

DJ: “Poem as Motherless” not only because it is a direct address, but also because it is a true love poem for her. It doesn’t paint me in this bucolic light either, I admit to blaming her for things that just aren’t her fault, but I admit to it, and this poem in a way, serves as an apology.

The love I have for her is not uncomplicated, but it drives this collection. I wouldn’t be on this earth if it wasn’t for her. I wouldn’t be alive. Despite the abuse I experienced as a girl, I still grew up in a place where I always had clean clothes, food, a roof over my head. She made a sacrifice for what she thought was best for me, and who is to say if it was truly best, but I believe her decision was heart-forward and selfless, and I have to thank her for that.

There was some discussion with my editor about changing the last poem in the book, but I really fought for the last poem to stay in its place. I wanted the last thing in the book to be a gesture toward my mother, not a meditation on myself or addiction or abuse. I wanted to have one final declaration of love.

Hound Triptych is available to order now!

Dani Janae is a Black lesbian poet and journalist from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Her work has been published by Longleaf Review, SWWIM, RHINO Poetry, and South Florida Poetry Journal, among others. She posts on Substack at “No Skips,” “Fig Widow,” and “Ask a Queer Doctor,” and she can be found at https://danijanae.com/.

A white woman is standing in front of a tree in a grove. She has short, dark red hair. She is wearing a black dress with white trim and a blue graduation stole with the words "UC Irvine" embroidered on it with gold thread.

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.

Sundress Reads: Review of My Arabic Breakfast

A cover of a book, showing the top half of a silver, circular, engraved platter with various Levantine foods such as mint tea, zaatar, and olives arranged in a circle. A plate of sunny-side-up eggs sit in the middle. The title, "My Arabic Breakfast," is written in Arabic and English letters against a bright yellow background. The author and illustrators' names, Yasmeen Fakhereddin and Noor Naqaweh is written beneath in white Arabic letters.

Written by Palestinian-Canadian educator, Yasmeen Fakhereddin, and illustrated by Syrian-Palestinian artist, Noor Naqaweh, My Arabic Breakfast (Zingo Ringo, 2024) is a bilingual board book that introduces young learners to Arabic. With vibrant illustrations of Levantine breakfast foods, and accompanied by English translations and pronunciation guides, this book helps children build their vocabulary, pattern recognition, and numeracy skills, all while spotlighting Palestinian culture.

Naqaweh’s hand-drawn illustrations make My Arabic Breakfast a visual feast for the eyes. From the first page, readers are welcomed to the dining table teeming with flavorful Levantine dishes. Each food item is drawn in mouthwatering detail—sesame seed-coated falafel, labneh cheese balls doused in olive oil, and mini filled flatbreads with steam wafting off them. The liveliness of the dining room and the warm, bright colors throughout the book remind readers of home, the feeling that they have a seat at the table. Another highlight of My Arabic Breakfast is phonetic Arabic spellings and English translations, which make bilingual learning easy. Many immigrant and interracial families hope that their children stay connected to their cultural heritage. Fakhereddin, as a Palestinian-Canadian and parent herself, understands this, and so aims to build children’s confidence in Arabic while introducing bits of Levantine culture in a way that remains accessible to children.

The first, full-page spread inside My Arabic Breakfast. It shows a yellow dining room, three brown dining chairs, and a dining table with a variety of Levantine and Palestinian foods. The left-hand side contains a jar of jam, a plate of cucumber and tomato slices, a bowl of olives, a basket of pita bread, twin bowls of zaatar and olive oil, bowls of fava bean foul, and a platter of falafels. In the center are a plate of mini filled pitas on an Al-Khalili pottery plate, a pan of six sunny-side-up eggs, salt and pepper shakers, an assorted platter of cheese, and a bowl of labneh cheese submerged in olive oil. On the right side of the table is a red tea kettle with steam coming out of the spout, a sugar bowl and plate of mint leaves, five glasses of mint tea, a plate with donut-shaped date-filled cookies, a plate of watermelon slices, and a tissue box with a tatreez embroidered cover. On the wall hangs a painting of a green olive branch laden with black olives. The bottom of the page says "welcome" in English on the left side and "ah-lan wa sah-lan" in Arabic on the right.

What makes My Arabic Breakfast unique is that it is entirely Palestinian-made, from the author and illustrator to the publisher, Zingo Ringo Books. Throughout the book, Fakhereddin and Naqaweh highlight their Palestinian roots through small artistic details. The opening spread, for instance, depicts a platter of watermelon slices on the table and a painting of an olive branch, two enduring symbols that represent the cultural identity of Palestinians and the connection to their land. The plate with the mini flatbreads on page 4, and the bowls of zaatar and olive oil on page 7 feature Palestinian pottery designs from the Al Khalil region, while page 8 showcases a traditional Palestinian date-filled cookie. On the last page, where all the food has been eaten, there remains on the table a tissue box with tatreez (embroidery), a traditional Palestinian craft. The book ends with one final, subtle detail—a painting with the word sahteen (“bon appetit”) in Levantine Arabic. Food, the practices and habits around food, hold personal and cultural significance. It is a means for communities to retain their cultural identity. My Arabic Breakfast is not only a language-learning book, but also a love letter to Palestine: culture and people. Through the recurring motifs of Palestinian foods and traditions, Fakhereddin and Naqaweh convey a message of resilience and pride in their heritage. In this way, My Arabic Breakfast is a message to the children of Palestine and the Palestinian diaspora, encouraging future generations to remember and celebrate their identity.

My Arabic Breakfast stands out because it is a board book primarily geared towards bilingual children from the Arabic-speaking diaspora. The significance of Fakhereddin and Naqaweh’s book lies in the mirror it holds up for children of Palestinian and Levantine origin, reflecting their heritage, cultural practices, and everyday experiences, and affirming their sense of identity and belonging. A persistent issue in mainstream English-language children’s books is the misrepresentation and underrepresentation of people of color, Arabs in particular. Even in recent years, the number of children’s stories written by or about Arabs remains very limited. For this reason, My Arabic Breakfast is a meaningful contribution to children’s literature. They can practice recognizing and naming foods from home and learn basic numbers and words in both Arabic and English. At the same time, the visuals render the learning experience all the more engaging.

A spread of two pages inside My Arabic Breakfast. The left page has a purple background with illustrations of three falafels in the center. The left-hand side has the number 3 at the top and the word "falafel" at the bottom in English. The right-hand side has the corresponding Arabic numerals and words. The right page has The right side is a reddish-pink background with four bowls of fava bean foul in the center. The left-hand side has the number 4 at the top and the word "foul" in English, with the corresponding numeral and word in Arabic on the right side.

My Arabic Breakfast is also a delightful read for non-Arabic speakers, helping them develop cultural awareness and appreciation for diverse communities. The book paints an authentic picture of Levantine culture and cuisine, allowing for an immersive educational experience. Children can discover a wide variety of dishes—zaatar, shai bil nana (mint tea), and fava bean foul, among others—and also learn Arabic words and numerals. As I leafed through the book, I found myself captivated by the vivid artwork and the elegance of Arabic script. With each page, my fingers traced the words, following the English pronunciation closely. Even as an adult reader, My Arabic Breakfast offered me an introduction to the richness of Palestinian and Levantine culture. Reading this book reminded me of the food and cultural practices in my own family as a Bangladeshi-American Muslim, of the joy of visiting friends and sharing traditional foods, and of the deep sense of togetherness. Moreover, reading My Arabic Breakfast made me reflect on the importance of diverse and inclusive books for children. Growing up in a small town in the American South, I was always curious about my heritage and mother tongue. At school, opportunities to explore this curiosity were rare. Thus, the presence of books like My Arabic Breakfast in libraries and bookstores is essential. They encourage children to learn about and cherish their identities. Addressed to young learners, My Arabic Breakfast is all about celebrating and maintaining one’s roots.

A South Asian woman smiling and sitting on a green couch. She has black hair, half lying over her right shoulder and half down her back, and is wearing a wine-red turtleneck. Behind her are two closed window curtains, one light blue and floral print, and the other solid teal.

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.

Creative Writing Workshop at Ijams Nature Center

The Sundress Academy for the Arts is pleased to announce that we will be hosting a generative creative writing workshop celebrating Earth Day and mental health awareness on April 25, 2026, partnered with Ijams Nature Center and hosted by Shelby Hansen. This two-hour event will be hosted at the Ijams Nature Center Glass Room in the Visitor Center from 2-4pm. Participants will have the opportunity to explore nature, learn about local plants and wildlife in East Tennessee, and reflect inwardly on their own connection to the natural world followed by a quick hike and open mic session.

The event will be open to writers of all backgrounds, experiences, and skill levels, and all exploration and movement is ADA accessible. While the event itself is free, parking at Ijams Nature Center costs $5.00. All proceeds go back to operation and conservation efforts for the organization.

Shelby Hansen (she/her) is a creative writer and self-proclaimed fantasy maestro hailing from the northern plains of Texas. She recently graduated from the University of Tennessee’s English program with a focus in Literature and Creative Writing, where she won several awards for her fiction. Her writing often focuses on womanhood, identity, and the reclamation of the self through a speculative lens. This is reflected in her debut novel, which she hopes to publish soon. When she is not writing or teaching today’s youth, she enjoys reading, crocheting, swimming, and spending time with her two cats, Stella and Gemma.

An image of a young blonde woman sitting down, arms to the side, posing for the camera. She is smiling, wearing a white top, blue jeans, and a light blue button up.

Ijams Nature Center is a nonprofit environmental education center that relies on member and donor support. Funding helps maintain the more than 318 acres of protected land managed by the nature center as well as allows Ijams to offer low-cost education programs so that more people can take part in them. Their mission is to encourage stewardship of the natural world by providing an urban greenspace for people to learn about and enjoy the outdoors through engaging experiences.

Meet Our New Intern: Tara Rahman

A South Asian woman smiling and sitting on a green couch. She has black hair, half lying over her right shoulder and half down her back, and is wearing a wine-red turtleneck. Behind her are two closed window curtains, one light blue and floral print, and the other solid teal.

I’ve had many changes and ups and downs in my life, but one thing that has always remained constant has been my love for books. Whether reading them, writing them, or even thinking about them, books have always been a big part of my life. As the daughter of a chemistry professor and a biologist, I grew up in a family that valued education and reading. Every shelf and table space was covered with textbooks, research papers, almanacs, newspapers, and nonfiction books. As a child, I would often flip through my father’s books as he graded exams and lab reports, trying to sound out the words and familiarize myself with them even though I didn’t yet understand what they meant. I’d also read and re-read my copies of Little Bear, Judy Moody, and Dear America books until they started falling apart. On top of this, I had limitless imagination and loved to create different worlds and characters. This often involved scribbling ideas down in my Dora the Explorer notebook and having my dolls act out the scenes in dramatic Bollywood-style fashion. Storytelling was my favorite pastime because there was always a new tale to explore. 

The first original poem I ever wrote was for my language arts class in second grade: a free-verse poem about nighttime, with a hand-drawn illustration of a sleepy girl and a moonlit window at the top of the page. After turning in my poem, my teacher, Ms. Emmond, pulled me aside to tell me that she loved my poem and asked if she could share it with the class. I remember how, like a public reading of an author’s latest work, she carefully read my poem to the entire class and asked me questions about my inspirations and word choice. The memory of her reading my line about falling asleep “in a bed sheet heap” and asking me about its meaning is something I cherish to this day. 

My love for language continued into my middle school and high school years. As a teen who faced severe bullying and later developed anxiety and depression, reading and writing became a source of comfort and a way for me to reflect on my experiences and the world around me. In the school library, I would immerse myself in different books and genres, including children’s fantasy like The School for Good and Evil by Soman Chainani, YA historical fiction such as Between Shades of Gray by Ruta Sepetys, literary fiction like A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini, as well as Japanese manga and graphic novels. These books introduced me to diverse, complex characters and empowered me to develop my own unique perspectives and creative styles. 

This lifelong passion for literature and writing led me to major in English Language and Literature and concentrate in Creative Writing at Smith College. During my senior year at Smith, I pursued a Special Studies project where I wrote a YA historical fiction on the Bangladesh Liberation War of 1971, combining my interests in global history and diverse storytelling. I am grateful and excited to work with Sundress Publications and support its mission to champion traditionally underrepresented writers. 

A South Asian woman smiling and sitting on a green couch. She has black hair, half lying over her right shoulder and half down her back, and is wearing a wine-red turtleneck. Behind her are two closed window curtains, one light blue and floral print, and the other solid teal.

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.

We Call Upon the Author to Explain—Noel Quiñones

For this installment of We Call Upon the Author to Explain we had the tremendous honor of getting to speak to award winning writer, educator, speaker, and activist Noel Quiñones about their brilliant collection Orange, out May 5th with CavanKerry Press. This collection explores the importance of time and place and the impact both have on who we are and how we grow. Orange is a wonderfully inventive and interactive collection that manages to engage with serious subjects while also delighting the senses. It’s a beautiful collection that is sure to make you both think and smile.

Ada Wofford: On the color wheel, orange is opposite blue, making blue the complimentary color of orange. Blue, as in “the blues,” “feeling blue,” etc. Was this a conscious connection you made when choosing the title Orange for this collection? If not, what do you think about this connection and is this a fair reading of the title?

Noel Quiñones: Funnily enough, orange has been my favorite color since childhood. I’ve asked my parents and none of us can remember when I first fell in love with it but that once I did, I was obsessed. My friends called me “orange boy” in middle school because I would show up in an orange winter coat, hat, gloves, and backpack over my Catholic school uniform. I wrote a poem in college about how misunderstood I felt for my love of orange, but little did I know how right I was.

There was a very early version of this collection that was split into six sections, one for each of the primary and secondary colors: red, blue, yellow, orange, green, and violet. I tried to fit poems into my very basic understandings of these colors, a.k.a. blue meant sadness, red meant anger, yellow meant joy, etc. I was continually frustrated by this constraint and so I started researching color history and color theory, the art and science of how colors affect humans. I was absolutely blown away as I learned that colors are so much more nuanced and dynamic than I ever could have conceived. Blue, while traditionally the color of sadness, became associated with the divine when used in the twelfth century to depict the Virgin Mary; today it is at the height of its popularity, as a survey of hundreds of countries found that blue is people’s favorite color by a considerable margin. Yellow, while of course associated with value, beauty, and joy, has at the same time meant contamination, rebellion, and perversion; most famously the 1890s were known as the “Yellow Nineties” as artists pushed back against the repression of Victorian values.

Orange, it turns out, has always been hard to pin down. In reading Joann Eckstut and Arielle Eckstut’s The Secret Language of Color, I was struck by this quote: “For millennia, orange was a color without an identity. In many languages, it’s one of the very last, if not the last, color named in the rainbow.” Cultural historian Kassia St. Clair, in her book The Secret Lives of Color, talks about a similar difficulty with orange. Since it wasn’t considered its own distinct color until relatively recently, it is “forever in danger of sliding into another color: red and yellow on either side, brown below.” Without knowing it, I had chosen a color as a toddler that exemplified complexity, one that invited frustration, confusion, awe, and engagement. This made it a perfect and yet completely unplanned title.

AW: In the poem, “How to Color Mami” you use the phrase, “the sky in your world.” I was very struck by this phrase and its use of the word “your.” In a literal sense we all share the same sky and the same world, but of course it often doesn’t feel like that when faced with the reality of the disparity that exists among individuals. Can you speak a bit about why you chose this phrasing and what it means to you?

NQ: I am so happy you felt pulled to this line, it is one of my favorite lines in the whole book! I want to cite the whole line though for context: “Won’t you draw the color of the sky in your world?” First, I love it because of how random its source is, haha. The line comes from an interview with the developer of my favorite video game of all time, Psychonauts, where you play as psychic cadet being trained on how to enter someone else’s mind and help them work through their mental struggles, whether it be depression, bipolar disorder, etc. Second, there is a color theory fact that I love: no two people on the entire planet see the exact same shade of any color. This disparity in individual experience, as you name, was central to my collection as I navigated three different peoples experience of a divorce: my mother, my father, and myself.

I chose this phrasing, put the phrase in my mother’s voice, and made this poem the first in the book because I wanted to invite the reader to consider that not only are there many different skies, but so often we don’t even get asked the question. We presume we are sharing the same experience or, when faced with a diversity of perspective, run away from the weight of holding multiple truths at once. As the first poem, I wanted readers to hopefully hold this question as they journeyed through the collection.

AW: “How to Spit Game on Mosholu Parkway” struck me as a time capsule of the early 2000s. Later in the collection you fittingly title another reference-laden poem, “The Time Capsule.” I grew up during this time too and was charmed by the various references in these two poems (the HitClips one especially made me smile), but for younger readers who did not experience that decade, what do you hope they take away from these poems?

NQ: HitClips forever! My cousin actually still has hers; we found them when unpacking her boxes after a move. Building on that, I hope the take away is that we must cherish our knickknacks. I don’t expect younger readers to know or research all of my references, but I do hope my love for this decade, for these random trends, items, and slang, endears them to do the same.

As a fellow millennial, you understand that we straddled two worlds, the analog and the digital. As we continue to move online, I find myself more and more attached to the physical. I have a VHS and DVD collection, I’ve been keeping every movie ticket I ever got since 2009, and I have binders of Yu-Gi-Oh cards. I believe there is something important about keeping things, for nostalgic reasons of course, but also for historical documentation. And so, I hope younger readers create their own time capsules like I did.

AW: Can you speak about the importance of “place” in this collection and how you use it? (I’m referring to your use of various references to places such as Jerome Ave, the Bronx, “Dogshit Park,” even Burger King; but feel free to take it further than this if you wish to speak about an inner space, a metaphorical space, etc.)

NQ: This feels so connected to the previous question. Growing up, all I heard about the Bronx was how terrible, ghetto, dirty, disgusting, dangerous, and ignored it was. On top of that, when people said these things, they directed them toward the South Bronx. I grew up in the North Bronx, in a tight knit community, where there was of course danger but also connection.

This collection is a time capsule in and of itself, for not just a time period but a place that was never talked about. The North Bronx is worthy of stories, historical documentation, and celebration. I want more pieces of art about the Bronx, about Oakland, about the Southside of Chicago, about all the places in our country so stereotyped, misunderstood, and silenced that we don’t even consider them “places”. What few stories we have about the Bronx are negative, and so I hope that Orange can be a story that contradicts, that combats, and makes people question what they believe about my hometown.

AW: Ms. Frizzle is another distinctly Millennial reference, why did you choose her to be a character in this collection?

NQ: Orange is deeply influenced by my mother’s job as an elementary school teacher of 29 years in the South Bronx. I like to say that my mother was a teacher both at work and at home. She truly enjoyed teaching and saw learning as a necessary part of life, whether it was reading books, visiting museums, or attending cultural events. This made it particularly hard to watch her feelings toward teaching sour over time, not because of teaching itself, but because of the New York Department of Education’s ever shifting and last-minute mandates and society’s lack of investment in teachers. When I made the decision to become a teacher, she cautioned me against it. But her influence had already been cemented; I wanted to do what she did. I’ve proudly taught high school for over 7 years.

As I mentioned before, I grew up hearing the most terrible things about the Bronx. But it went beyond that because I was being “taught” how to view the place I lived at the same time I loved where I grew up. I knew that I wanted to find a way to write poems about these dangerous perceptions, that I needed a persona to hold these contradicting themes. But who?

The answer came when I saw a post from @millennialmisery on Instagram (to anyone reading this, please follow if you grew up in the 90s, it is so funny and nostalgic!). They had posted a GIF from an episode of The Magic School Bus, where Ms. Frizzle takes her students through the life cycle of salmon. Not only is the school bus transformed into a salmon, but the students are turned into salmon fish eggs and then fertilized. The caption of the GIF read, “Remember when the Magic School Bus kids got jizzed on by salmon?” The comments were filled with hysterical comments about how Ms. Frizzle would get put in jail for consistently putting her students in danger. I laughed and laughed and laughed and then had a lightbulb moment.

What if we not only named Ms. Frizzle’s negligence, but also humanized her by highlighting the challenges of teaching? By using this larger-than-life character, I could showcase the nuances of being a teacher as well as the very act of teaching. I ended up writing a series of poems in the voice of Ms. Frizzle, trying my best to show her reservations, her well-intentions, her biases, her adventurousness, and her deviousness. In her I had found a way to comment on the larger themes of my collection without relying on my loved ones, offering a distance that I hope invoked the lofty power and responsibility teachers had.

AW:  This might somewhat relate to the last question, but as an educator what value do you think poetry has as an educational tool—both for teachers using poetry in the classroom as well as for readers engaging with poetry outside of the classroom on their own terms?

NQ: I am currently a poet in residence with the Chicago Poetry Center (CPC), where I get to teach poetry in Chicago public schools across the city. One of my favorite schools I teach at, a largely first-generation immigrant middle school, has continued to prove to me that poetry has incredible value as an educational tool. I have many students who have either recently learned English or are trying to improve their ability in it. Poetry allows them the opportunity to see language as a playground, not a strict set of rules that overwhelms them. CPC encourages us to tell students that we don’t care about your spelling or grammar during our sessions; we care about you expressing yourself to the best of your ability. This invitation, to not just wordplay but also telling a story on your own terms, has produced poems that remind me every week of the power of this art form. I could describe some here, but I’d rather encourage people to read some of the student poems at our website; we publish 2-3 poems a week from all of our classrooms across the city.

As for people engaging with poetry outside of the classroom, I am so encouraged by the way spoken word poetry has expanded and continued poetry’s important cultural legacy. While all creative writing allows for people to feel connected to another’s story, I believe there is a unique openness and care in poetry, with its invitation to break conventions, to say the thing beneath the thing, to elicit emotion at the smallest levels of language that teach us all how to “feel.”

AW: This collection is wonderfully engaging, from scanning a QR code to having to hold one poem up to a mirror in order to read it, why did you decide that this approach was essential to what you were aiming to express/accomplish with this collection?

NQ: As a high school student, I was introduced to poetry through spoken word, where interaction was a mandatory part of it. We used our voice and body language to bring the audience more intimately into the poem. I wanted to do the same thing on the page, to push against the passiveness of the reading experience, to invite the reader to collaborate in meaning making, and perhaps gain something deeper from having to engage.

At the same time, this collection is about understanding my parent’s decisions through and after their divorce, accepting my queer identity, and learning accountability as an AMAB person. These were all, and still are, struggles I am navigating, and so I created these poetic forms that require some kind of effort, in the hopes that the effort the reader puts in highlights my efforts as a person navigating these things.

AW: Lastly, is there anything else you’d like readers to know about this collection or upcoming projects, talks, workshops, etc.?

NQ: I gotta say, I love how all of your questions are allowing me to give intertwined answers! And so, building on the previous question on engagement, I am actually working closely with my friend, fellow teacher, and paper engineer, Jean Kim, to create a 3D chapbook of selected poems from Orange that push the interactivity of my work to their fullest potential. This chapbook will have a limited run but will be available at my in-person events. I can’t wait to share it!

In terms of other projects, the experience of creating Orange really put me on a path toward interactivity across multiple artistic mediums. In the time since I finished Orange, I’ve written two award winning short stories, gained a video game writing certification, and finished Justice for my Sister’s BIPOC Sci-Fi Screenwriting Lab, where I wrote my first TV show pilot. To keep up with all that, people can sign up for my Email Newsletter here.

Orange is available through CavanKerry Press

A photograph of Noel Quiñones from the chest up wearing a black knit cap and a red and black plaid collared shirt over a black t-shirt.

Noel Quiñones is an Emmy and O. Henry award-winning Nuyorican writer from the Bronx. Their work has been published in Poetry, Boston Review, Poem-a-day, and The BreakBeat Poets Vol. 4: LatiNEXT anthology, as well as the Michigan Quarterly Review, for which they won the 2025 Jesmyn Ward Fiction Prize. Their short story, “This Time and the Next” will be included in The Best Short Stories 2026: The O. Henry Prize Winners. They have also received fellowships from Periplus, CantoMundo, Lambda Literary, the Poetry Foundation, the Watering Hole, and the Vermont Studio Center. A graduate of the University of Mississippi’s MFA program and founder of Project X, a Bronx-based spoken word poetry organization, Noel is currently a poet in residence with the Chicago Poetry Center. You can follow Noel at www.noelpquinones.com.

A black and white selfie of Ada in front of their bookshelf. They are wearing glasses, a black beret, a black blazer, and a gray button-up shirt with a mandarin collar.

Ada Wofford (they/them) holds MAs in both English and Library Studies. In addition to working at a rare book shop, they are an associate poetry editor at Sundress Publications, the editor of We Call Upon the Author to Explain, and the non-fiction editor at Stirring: A Literary Collection. Their writing has appeared in The Blue Nib, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Autostraddle, Capable Magazine, Sundress Reads, and more. Their chapbook, I Remember Learning How to Dive, was published in 2020, part of which earned them a Pushcart Prize nomination. 

Sundress Academy for the Arts Presents April Poetry Xfit

The Sundress Academy for the Arts is excited to present Poetry Xfit hosted by Brynn Martin. This generative workshop event will take place on Sunday, April 25th, from 2 to 4 pm EST via Zoom. Join us at the link tiny.utk.edu/sundress with the password “safta”.

Poetry Xfit isn’t about throwing tires or heavy ropes, but the idea of confusing our muscles is the same. You will receive ideas, guidelines, and more as part of this generative workshop series in order to complete three poems in two hours. A new set of prompts will be provided after the writers have written collaboratively for thirty minutes. The goal is to create material that can be later modified and transformed into artwork rather than producing flawless final versions. The event is open to prose authors as well!

The theme for April’s Poetry Xfit is “Joy.” In the uncertain, dispiriting, and often violent times we are living through, it can be difficult to hold onto comfort and, even more so, happiness. While writing is often a tool to process trauma and hopelessness, it is just as important to find and celebrate joy and warmth through the gloom.

A white woman with brown, curly hair, and glasses standing in front of a teal background, smirking at the camera.

Brynn Martin (she/her) is a Midwesterner at heart, but she has spent the last decade living in Knoxville, where she received her MFA in poetry from the University of Tennessee. She is an Associate Editor for Sundress Publications and the event manager for an indie bookstore. Her poetry has appeared in Contrary Magazine, Rogue Agent, FIVE:2:ONE, and Crab Orchard Review, among others.

This event is brought to you in part by grants provided by the Tennessee Arts Commission. While this is a free event, donations can be made to the Sundress Academy for the Arts here.