Category: Admin

An Interview with Abigail Raley, Author of Wet Specimen

Following the release of her first full-length collection, Wet Specimen, Abigail Raley spoke with Sundress Publications editorial intern Franchesca Nicole Lazaro. Here, they discussed the materiality and spectacle of the body in death, illness, and eroticism, the need for resistance against rigid gender, domestic, and ecological hierarchies, and the power of embracing our natural, “feral” selves.

Franchesca Nicole Lazaro: In “Ode to Fetal Deer,” the speaker observes: “your small body cold beneath the jar’s collapsed glass womb, your brine, mine too.” In “Flying Fox,” she writes: “Make my mouth the warehouse for your cherub’s thunder, I think, and semen trickles down my thin red jowl.” How does the body function as both a specimen and a beast in its own right?

Abigail Raley: I wrote Wet Specimen during my MFA at the University of Montana, and my professor Sean Hill took us to the zoological museum. I was taken with the way creatures are made into observable specimens. I’m also taken with the idea of spectacle, what it means to be observed or watched. The wet specimen doubles what the creature actually is—meaning it is itself, but it’s also a tool for observation. When I was at the zoological museum, I was looking at this fetal bighorn sheep, and I was thinking about how the hospital is like that too. I have cystic fibrosis, which means when I’m hospitalized, I have to be kept in a sterile environment, much like that of the specimen jar. The same doubling happens in the hospital. I am me, but I’m also a medical object under observation. That doubling also happens in eroticism, as in I am me, but I am also the erotic object you’re observing. I think that specimen/beast duality you’re tracking has to do with those divisions/replications.

FNL: In “M.A.S.H.,” the speaker tells herself: “Men’s fingers are just fingers, not bullets.” What does dissociation during intimacy or within desire reveal about the humans and animals in this collection?

AR: I’m interested in how you track dissociation throughout the work because, for me, it’s less about dissociation and more about hope. “M.A.S.H.” is a poem full of violence and grief, but the speaker of that poem is futilely hoping/trusting that those violences won’t happen. I think there’s a use in that hope, even if it is futile. I don’t think “M.A.S.H.” is a poem particularly tracking dissociation or intimacy at all. I think “M.A.S.H.” is my little utopia, where I get to be a girl forever. Of course, I don’t get to be a girl forever, and I have experienced violence, so the poem doesn’t get to live in that necessarily. I want it to, though.

FNL: In “Beast,” the speaker reflects: “Maybe it is the edge of your esophagus. In every iteration, I am touching your soft inside. There is blood in my mouth.” How does hunting function as consumption in this collection?

AR: Again, I’m so excited by your read of this section, because I haven’t had hunting on the mind, but this book is hunting quite a bit throughout. Certainly, I’m interested in consumption. Erotic experience as consumption is a pretty common trope, but I’m also interested in how it occurs naturally in non-human animals. The poems “Flying Fox” and “Anglerfish” do this most explicitly, I think, and they are some of my hungriest poems. A lot of the book is just me finding cool animal facts and writing about them. Hunting is inherently a consumptive process, so it makes sense to me that those two things would be bound together.

FNL: In “Ripe,” the speaker recalls: “a man I loved once said, I’m only waiting for you to die.” Later: “by mature, he meant your body has so much to hold, your silence.” How does physical presence in relationships aggravate domesticity for the speaker in this collection?

AR: There was a time where I was into the idea that the domestic environment was a physically entrapping space. I wrote a poem that didn’t make it into the book about the process of making a roux. I don’t know if you’ve ever made roux, but it requires a lot of standing in one place and stirring. If you stop for even a second, it could burn. The task of making it, then, is a sort of trap, if a bit low stakes. I’m curious as to how physical positions of the body govern behavior. Domesticity creates situations where bodies are coming up against each other in really animal ways. Maybe I just think that domesticity is inherently aggravated and aggravating.

FNL: In “Aubade with Cystic Fibrosis,” the speaker writes: “there was once a creature that emerged from my coffin of a throat and said, feed me” and closes with “that didn’t shake me down bright air, that didn’t consist of my body just waking up.” How does domination become intentional submission in this collection?

AR: “Aubade with Cystic Fibrosis” is about my experience with a chronically ill body. A good person to look at for this question, who has been a massive inspiration in my life, is Bob Flanagan. Flanagan had cystic fibrosis, and he did BDSM performance art and poetry. He found that submission to controlled pain was the only way to take control of the involuntary chronic pain caused by his cystic fibrosis. Submission was a necessary joy in his life. It is a gift to choose submission, because chronic illness takes that choice from you. I have no choice but to submit to illness. Maybe that poem takes on Flanagan’s choice more than I thought. To choose submission is a powerful thing.

FNL: In “But Heaven,” the speaker moves from “I was far from you and getting farther. The open air around me folded. I knew the earth would never be renewed” to closing on “I gazed, I thought of you, I smiled.” How does the collection move from feral energy to potential energy?

AR: I wonder about “feral” and “potential” as oppositional descriptors. Would feral energy be something indulgent, acted upon? And then potential energy the restrictive or repressed? Curious about your thoughts on this! I’m interested in blending death and love, but in a way that recognizes death as a banal happening. I’m obsessed with the materiality of the body, both in death and in eroticism. Maybe that’s where your feral/potential energy dichotomy is coming up.

FNL: In “Squall,” the speaker observes: “I watch the flock churn while he touches me, their nearly colliding bodies making use of all that space. His hand postures one thigh open, then the other, my stomach wide and flat as a saucer. The birds flurry, their high backs furrowing the air.” How does the speaker’s relationship with the beasts subvert the speaker’s interpersonal relationships in this collection?

AR: I love Donna Haraway’s book, Staying with the Trouble. In it, she talks about kinship in what she terms “the cthuluscene.” In the introduction to Staying with the Trouble, Haraway says, “The task is to make kin in lines of inventive connection as a practice of learning to live and die well with each other in a thick present.” Disability theory also contends with this interconnectedness, but Haraway focuses on interspecies kinship, which I find to be profoundly resonant, important, and true. If human-to-human relationships are subverted in the collection, it’s because they are put on the same terrain as the animal-to-human and animal-to-animal relationships. I see Wet Specimen as a book that rejects hierarchies which place human relationships and behavior at the top, which is also connected to my perspective of bodies as pure material.

FNL: In “The New Sensation,” the speaker cries: “I have been thieved out of my body, elixered into an orgy of sensation” and closes with “Give me shape again. I am a blank field. Clarify my hill.” What role does grief play in the speaker’s relationship to her body?

AR: “The New Sensation” is that feeling you have when you’re sick and all you want is the emptiness of health. Sickness illuminates how empty the body can be because it is a state of fullness. That poem to me is grieving the senseless body, or maybe it’s grieving a mind unaware of the body. One of the blessings and curses of chronic illness is an incessant awareness of the body. On the one hand, the intimate awareness of the body is quite beautiful, but on the other hand, the pain of sensation is overwhelming.

FNL: In “Trapped in the Conga Line, I Ruminate on Intimacy,” the speaker reflects: “my hands on his body say, come home, say you’re tense, say let me move you… We will unfleetingly and without hesitation touch each other through the dark.” What does physical intimacy reveal about the expression of love in this collection?

AR: I just love community. Not that everyone should be going around touching strangers, but we’re offered so few moments to honestly engage with one another. Technology has only widened the gap between community members. Even in my small hometown, our community is deeply stratified. Most of the love throughout the book is romantic or erotic love. “Conga Line” is one of the few poems about platonic love. We’re all just creatures looking for connection to each other, so we make up these little excuses to create intimacy. The conga line is one such intimacy.

FNL: In “Landscape with Magpies Nesting in the Blizzard,” the speaker confesses: “I think I was bad in my life. I think I did something wrong” and closes with “I’m sorry. Can I begin again? I mean I looked out the window and saw the birds and I only thought of being loved.” What does the direct address of the source of pain solve for the speaker in this collection?

AR: I’m not sure that I get a lot solved in the collection at all! I’m not very interested in solutions. I don’t think they often actually exist in life, at least not permanent ones. Disability resists solution all the time. My illness is not solvable. I’ll live with it until I die, and it’s not just me. We’ve all got to die. There’s no solution to that. We can diagnose the source of pain all day long, but that doesn’t mean it’s solved. We are mostly unknown to ourselves and each other. I’m not sure the speaker solves much, either. The end of that poem is so odd. There’s a gap between the externality of the birds and the seemingly unrelated internal experience of the speaker. Why would one watch birds and only think of being loved? There’s a mismatch between the external world and the internal world, even if the speaker seems to feel that she’s figured something out about herself.

Wet Specimen is available to order now!

Abigail Raley (she/they) is a queer poet and library worker from Bowling Green, Kentucky. She is a 2024 Pushcart Prize nominee and earned an MFA in poetry from the University of Montana and is a current PhD candidate at Case Western Reserve University in Cleveland, Ohio. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Offing, Hanging Loose Magazine, HAD, The Stone Circle Review, and elsewhere, and feature themes of animalism, release, and the body as a grotesque vessel of sensuality and tenderness. Find her on Instagram @willyoubemyvalentine. Wet Specimen is Raley’s first full-length collection.

Franchesca Nicole Lazaro is an emerging editor with a passion for developmental editing and book production. She previously worked with Brink Literary Project and currently works with Tulipwood Press. Her editorial interests center on amplifying perspectives from women, asexual voices, and religious backgrounds, particularly in literary fiction, memoir, and nonfiction that explores feminism, history, technology, and media studies. She is learning Japanese and maintains a blog on women’s comics and reading. Franchesca is relocating from Seattle, Washington, to San Jose, California.

Project Bookshelf: Ruoyu Wang

One row of a bookshelf with several books lined up next to each other vertically and their spines visible, not organized by any particular color or author or genre.

I’m home for winter break from college right now, so the picture right here is actually of my bookshelf at college. I filled about ⅔ of one shelf with all the books I wanted to bring with me from home: a mixture of my favorites in addition to books that I’ve yet to read but thought would be pertinent for my first year away from home. 

My bookshelf is mostly poetry, some essays, two novellas, and two full-length novels. I like to think about my teenage years in terms of which poetry collection felt most formative for me at the time. In 2022, it was Hard Damage by Aria Aber, 2023’s was I Do Everything I’m Told by Megan Fernandes, and 2024’s was The Moon That Turns You Back by Hala Alyan. I know Anne Carson’s Autobiography of Red is technically a novel written in verse, but I think of it as a poetry collection, so I’ll say that for 2025. There are other novels I love, too, of course, like James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room or Andrea Lawlor’s Paul Takes the Form of a Mortal Girl (not on my shelf!), but I think I’m a writer who usually wants to talk more about poetry. 

I associate a lot of my favorites with loved ones in my life, so for example, I’ve come to associate I Do Everything I’m Told with my friends Mimi and Andrew, both of whom also love Megan Fernandes’s work. I first read her brilliant sonnet crown “The False Beloveds with One Exception (or, Repetition Compulsion)” online in The Kenyon Review a few summers ago, and I just couldn’t get it out of my head. When I read and reread her poems, I also become obsessed with the orbits of devotion, distance, and the sense of wonder and charm that can lend itself to the messiest, most transitional periods in life. 

The same bookshelf shown from a higher angle looking down, making visible the six Smiskis (small toy figurines that are green) placed decoratively on the top of the bookshelf, in addition to a potted plant.

One collection I always bring with me everywhere is The Year of Blue Water by Yanyi, which I first read in the fall of 2023 and have reread two or three times since then. It’s quite a short collection—being almost entirely untitled prose poems—but I recommend it to everyone I know and even pulled quotes from it for my Gender Studies project this semester. Dorothea Lasky’s Rome is one I read almost entirely in the waiting area of a Chinese restaurant in Richmond, Canada, and I read Hala Alyan’s The Twenty-Ninth Year in my favorite park, spread across a few days’ sunsets last June. 

I love my book(shelf) collection at school partially because it fits into such a small space, partially because it’s the first thing I see when I exit or enter my dorm room, and partially because on top of it, I can set the Smiski figurines my friends have gifted to me over time. I don’t plan on buying new books anytime soon because I’m trying to take full advantage of my college’s extensive library, but I’m so grateful to have my own bookshelf-library that gets to stay with me through the years.

An East Asian, non-binary individual standing on a walkway outside of a building in the evening and visible from the chest and elbows up. They have short brown hair and are wearing a white blouse under a black blazer.

Ruoyu Wang (they/them) is a writer from Seattle. Their poems appear in Sine Theta Magazine, COUNTERCLOCK, and The Shore, and have been recognized by YoungArts, The Adroit Journal, and Narrative Magazine, among others. Currently, they serve as the Founding Director of the SUNHOUSE Summer Writing Mentorship and study Critical Race and Political Economy at Mount Holyoke College. They love linguistics, postcards, live music, and jasmine milk tea.

Sundress Academy for the Arts Presents June Poetry Xfit

Knoxville, TN — The Sundress Academy for the Arts is excited to present Poetry Xfit hosted by Shelby Hansen. This generative workshop event will take place on Sunday, June 28th, 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 June’s Xfit is “Celebration.” Celebration doesn’t have to be loud or explosive–it can look like appreciation for the sun rising in the morning, the warmth of hearing from an old friend, or stumbling upon wildflowers on your walk. Whether your current celebrations are momentous or simple, let them find a home in your next poem.

Shelby Hansen 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.

While this is a free event, donations can be made to the Sundress Academy for the Arts here.

This event is brought to you in part by grants provided by the Tennessee Arts Commission.

We Call Upon the Author to Explain—Angie Kang

For this installment of We Call Upon the Author to Explain, we had the pleasure of speaking with award-winning, author-illustrator Angie Kang about her children’s picture book Our Lake (Kokila, 2025). We dove deep into the nuances of her brilliant artistry and profound writing and got a sneak peek into her creative process. Our Lake redefines readers’ expectations of a picture book—with its heartfelt exploration of grief and impeccable symbolism, this is a book for readers of all ages.

Tassneem Abdulwahab: I wanted to start us off by talking about the color scheme. The contrast of the blue, yellow, and purple is spectacular—can you tell me more about why you chose these specific colors?

Angie Kang: First of all, I wanted to create a difference between the present and past. I wanted the past to feel like the sun is kind of beaming through Little Brother’s closed eyes as he’s remembering things—that’s the hot reds that you see there. Often the past is represented in sepia or muted colors, but in this story, the past is more vibrant because it’s literally full of more life. The colors in the past are a little more naturalistic and more comforting because their father is still there, whereas after he’s gone, the world is changed; the landscape looks stranger without him there. So in the present, the water is a little more purple, perhaps darker and a little less welcoming.

Also, I chose the colors of the brothers’ clothes deliberately: the Little Brother wears a red shirt, and Older Brother wears the same red hat that their father had—that red color becomes one that embodies the dad, so this way they both get to keep a part of him with them. There’s also a little red bird hidden in some of the pages, which I wanted to use to represent Father’s spirit. I chose his hat color first and the bird color second, though I recently learned a red cardinal is a sign of people’s loved ones returning to them after they’ve passed away, which was a very happy coincidence! Little Brother also carries this little teal-striped towel, which is the same teal as the water in the past, and that teal returns once more as a manifestation of Father’s laughter.

TA: You’re giving me great jumping points! The hat felt like such a central object in the narrative; it’s there with us throughout the journey, and on the last page, the perspective makes it seem like the hat is almost watching over them. Can you tell me more about its symbolism in the story?

AK: I’m so glad you noticed that! This hat is definitely a stand-in for Father, and I also wanted it to feel like an emblem of all the responsibilities of being someone who takes care of family. Because Father gives Older Brother his hat, he has also symbolically passed on his duties of care to him. Older Brother brings the younger brother to the lake, encourages him, and models the rituals of diving. I wanted Older Brother to seem as though he had everything handled in the beginning of the story while he has this hat on, but then when the brothers are both in the lake and Older Brother has shed the hat, he becomes more physically and emotionally vulnerable. There’s this moment at the end of the book where Little Brother recognizes Older Brother’s grief too, and we see them both being a little bit more emotionally open. Just two kids trying to figure it out together.

I think the beautiful thing about a hat is that it keeps the shape of a human head. It shows a lack. Even when it’s on the ground, we sense that Father is truly looking over them. At one point, his hat was so intimately molded to him that now the shape of it preserves his presence, even in his absence.

TA: Your writing is wonderfully authentic with lines like, “His smile is crooked, as if half of him is happy and half of him is not.” Can you tell me more about the way you’ve approached writing about grief for such a young audience?

AK: It’s interesting because this book initially began as a poem I had written while looking at a painting by Milton Avery, as a part of an ekphrasis practice. I think the important thing was that I wasn’t writing for children, at least initially. I’ve always been interested in children’s literature, but I think there’s a switch that can happen when I sit down to write for kids: I’m often trying to write what I think a children’s book sounds like. I’ve written many failed manuscripts that way, but because I started the first draft of Our Lake in a place for myself and for adults, I stayed in this register where I was able to meet kids where they’re at. They’re so much more brilliant than folks give them credit for. There’s this Maurice Sendak quote where he says: “I don’t write for children. I write and someone says it’s for children.” I feel a real kinship to that. I also try to make emotions felt with familiar language used unfamiliarly as opposed to what might be unfamiliar language to kids used correctly.

TA: Do you write with the parents also in mind, seeing as they’re the first consumer of your books?

AK: Honestly, not really. If I have them in mind, it’s only because I think that picture books are for everyone, and I hope that it reaches both children and adults. I feel like in many ways I’m writing for myself as an adult but then also writing for the child nestled within myself. I also deliberately try not to think about how people might read two young boys going off to this dangerous location by themselves because I think there’s a different logic to picture book narratives where children are allowed more freedom. Here, the ordinarily dangerous situation might allow for processing and understanding the real emotional impact of grief as opposed to a literal portrayal of two kids diving off a high point by themselves. I always try to prioritize the children’s emotional landscape over a literal one.

TA: Speaking of landscapes, why did you choose the lake as the setting? Is there a significance to the setting being a body of water?

AK: I have to admit that I just love painting water! I think there’s so many different ways that you can approach the surface of it and what goes underneath. And water just has so many symbolic qualities—there’s the literary idea of rebirth, and catharsis through tears. And water holds onto things—literally, through surface tension. When you exit the water, it almost feels like it doesn’t want to let you go, which also plays into themes of grief and comfort. It’s very powerful to me to imagine all the memories held in the basin of a lake. Also, the climax of the story is when Little Brother sees the reflection of Father in the lake. I love that you can both look at water as a surface but then enter within, so in that way, Little Brother was diving into his father’s embrace after he “sees” him.

TA: Going back to details, I noticed this beautiful Polaroid of Father, Little Brother, and Older Brother on the imprint page. Was that a detail you simply wanted to add or does it have a particular significance?

AK: I actually added that in the end because I felt like I wanted to see the three of them all together in another image. We see the three of them when they’re younger in a memory, but I think there’s something charming and real about the Polaroid feeling awkward and cut off in the way that happens sometimes when children are taking pictures. I loved that the art director Jasmin Rubero placed the Polaroid across from the previous page, where Father isn’t there (only his hat is), but the text says they’re all in the lake together.

TA: Seeing as this is a picture book, do you ever find yourself deciding to convey a portion in illustration instead of writing and vice versa, and how do you achieve that balance?

AK: That’s a question that’s at the heart of picture book making! People tend to think that the illustrations just repeat what the words are saying, but the art is essential in telling another part of the story. I am definitely always trying to consider what goes in the words vs. what goes in the images. Sometimes I’ll consider the words finalized, but then as I’m sketching, I realize that  actually I want to paint it. Then I have to change the text, so it’s not redundant.

I also think of choosing the moment to illustrate as finding the right freeze frame. If the words are describing a moment that’s ten seconds long, you can drag an imaginary slider across those ten seconds and find which moment is the best. For instance, in the spread where Little Brother is diving into a lake, I had sketched out Little Brother hitting the water because I was responding to the part of my text which says he slips neatly into the lake. But then I decided to save the contact of the water for Little Brother’s climax of the story so that we get to experience catharsis along with the character whose interiority we’re following. Since we’re in Little Brother’s point of view, I also wanted us to see him watching Older Brother.

The nice thing you can do when you’re the author-illustrator is the flexibility of choosing what parts to illustrate vs. write. 

TA: “Now, I’ve become an arrow the way Father taught me” really grabbed my attention. Why did you use the arrow in particular as a metaphor for the moment Little Brother dives?

AK: I just like the idea that arrows fly, and because when he dives, he becomes sharp and targeted, like an arrow finding its mark.

TA: Even though this is very much a 2D medium, illustrations like the one where Little Brother is standing on the edge of the cliff feel very visceral. How did you achieve that effect?

AK: I’m really glad you responded to that one! Even though the text says, “I inch forward until my toes meet the edge,” I needed to negotiate what was literally shown and what wasn’t. I was trying to draw him literally at the edge of the cliff at first until I realized that feels really dangerous to me as a viewer. Instead, I chose to represent his headspace—he feels like his toes are at the edge even though he’s really not that close to it. How he feels is what’s important, and the dramatic perspective adds to that psychology of him feeling like it’s super far away from the water, even if maybe in reality it’s not so distant after all.

TA: I’m opening the floor to you—is there anything you really want to to speak about that I may have not noticed?

AK: You’ve noticed so many thoughtful details, and I’m so grateful that you spent so much time with the book and read it so closely. It’s like that quote in the movie Ladybird, where when you pay attention to something, that’s a form of love. I feel like you showed a lot of love and attention to this book, so I really appreciate it!

TA: Are there any upcoming projects we should be on the lookout for?

AK: I illustrated a book called Navigating Night (Anne Schwartz Books, 2026) that just came out. It’s written by Julie Leung and it’s about a girl and her father who deliver takeout food together at night. The girl is her father’s translator and navigator, and she gets frustrated at not being able to be a “normal kid.” Throughout the night, the father tells the girl a bit more about his past, and they eventually reach an understanding. It was a really fun book to work on, and I got to experiment with table-salt in my illustration process!

I also have my next author-illustrated title coming out next spring called My Grandma the Stranger (Kokila, 2027)! This one is very personal to me, and I’m excited (and nervous) to see how it’s received by the world and readers!

Our Lake is available from Kokila

Angie Kang's headshot against a natural backdrop. She's a Chinese-American woman with short brown hair, wearing a beige knitted sweater.

Angie Kang makes art in LA. She is the author/illustrator of OUR LAKE (Kokila) which received a Caldecott Honor, the Charlotte Zolotow Award, the Dilys Evans Founder’s Award, and was featured on “Best of” lists by NPR, Publishers Weekly, Kirkus, School Library Journal, Horn Book, and more. She is also the illustrator of NAVIGATING NIGHT, written by Julie Leung (Anne Schwartz Books). Her work has appeared in The New Yorker, The Believer, Best Small Fictions, and elsewhere. She is a 2026 Sendak Fellow, the 2024 Ezra Jack Keats Fellow at MacDowell, and was shortlisted for the 2023 Cartoonist Studio Prize. Find her at angiekang.net or on Instagram @anqiekanq.

Tassneem Abdulwahab's headshot against a bluish-lavender background. She's a North African woman, wearing a greyish-navy headscarf, silver earrings, and a white jacket with silver buttons.

Tassneem Abdulwahab is a writer, editor, and book reviewer. With a strong interest in culture, history, and psychology and a love for fiction, her writing often draws on one or more of these threads to tell character-centric stories. She earned her BA (Hons) Creative and Professional Writing from UWE Bristol and has been in love with publishing ever since. As an artist, she’s most fond of oil painting and has sold several pieces over the last few years. In her free time, you can find her experimenting with new artistic mediums, researching for her next painting, or going down historical rabbit holes. You can read some of her writing on her Substack.

Sundress Academy for the Arts Presents Look / Mira: Latinx/e Ways of Looking in Poetry & Prose

The Sundress Academy for the Arts is excited to present “Look / Mira: Latinx/e Ways of Looking in Poetry & Prose” a workshop led by José Angel Araguz on Wednesday, June 10th from 6:00-7:30 PM EST. This event will be held over Zoom. Participants can register for the event for free here!

This 90-minute generative workshop invites participants to explore the act of looking at both cultural inheritance and creative practice. Drawing on Latinx/e writers who re-frame the gaze, we’ll examine how looking and being looked at are shaped by language, place, power, and memory. We’ll read short excerpts from poetry, creative nonfiction, and hybrid works that re-imagine observation as resistance, remembrance, and recognition.

Through guided discussion and low-stakes writing prompts, we’ll experiment with how our own ways of looking (familial, spiritual, political) can become generative ground for new work. Open to writers of all levels, the workshop encourages a porous approach to genre and centers communal reflection and craft curiosity. Participants will have the option to share aloud and will leave with drafts and revision pathways.

While there is no fee to participate in this workshop, those who are able and appreciative may make donations directly to José Angel Araguz via Venmo at @Jose-Araguz-1.

Register today!

José Angel Araguz is the author most recently of the lyric memoir Ruin & Want (Sundress Publications) and the poetry collection Rotura (Black Lawrence Press). He is an Associate Professor at Suffolk University as well as a faculty member at large for the Solstice Low-Residency MFA Program. He blogs and reviews books at The Influence.

Sundress Reads: Review of Souvenirs from Another Life

Sundress Reads

Leah Browning’s Souvenirs from Another Life (Quiet Ocean Studio & Press, 2026) is the first full-length short fiction collection from the author, but the latest in a long line of chapter books, non-fiction, and poetry. With over thirty publications having originally featured many of the stories, this collection is an amalgamation of multiple years of work and dedication to the craft. At its core, the collection is a series of vignettes featuring life at its truest: in relation to others. From first loves to last days, the shutter closes on glimpses of parents, children, friends, lovers, and strangers as they navigate what it means to live a life.

In form, Souvenirs from Another Life is diverse. Its diversity is most evident in its inclusion of everything from full-length literary fiction to microfiction. The variation in the length, content, and perspective of each story maintains an engaging pace. With every page turned, completely new expectations are set. In theme, it feels almost voyeuristic, looking on at these faceless characters as they navigate the most arduous or joyous days of their lives. They have plain names and minimal physical descriptions, lending to that anonymity. We absorb these moments in singularity, often completely unaware of their backstory. 

This book is the embodiment of the feeling when you are sitting at a cafe, sipping on your americano, when two best friends sit down at the table beside you. Just over the noise of the busy street, you overhear fragments of their conversation. One of them is breaking up with their boyfriend or dealing with a terrible landlord. You know you are eavesdropping, and you know you should not, but curiosity gets the better of you. That quiet thrill is what keeps you reading Souvenirs from Another Life.

In particular, the collection truly shines in its briefest stories. While the few plots that were linked were always fascinating, I found myself most struck by the ones that lasted a few mere paragraphs.

As I read on, I was particularly intrigued by the idea of absence. Without being able to sit with a character for very long, there is an intentional lack of intimacy between the reader and the narrator. You are being held at arm’s length by the form while Browning’s high stakes and distinct characterization pull you closer. But the less there is to know, the more room it gives for the reader to insert their own thoughts, beliefs, and interpretations. It invites an open dialogue, encouraging you to contend with the story and reflect on your own memories.

“If I had more time, I would have written you a shorter letter.” Often wrongly attributed, the quote can be traced to a philosopher, Blaise Pascal. During my undergraduate studies in Creative Writing, my professors often cited a similar idea. Series are easier to master than a standalone novel. A short story is painstaking. A poem is completely, utterly excruciating. A single sentence can torment you.

See, an excerpt from “WORLDS,” a story that, in length, was under a page:

“But in the middle of the night, she’d lent me a toothbrush, and I’d watched her floss her teeth” (Browning 95).

In under twenty words, Browning masterfully presents setting, character, and action. Newness, uncertainty, and awe permeate the world of the narrator. There is an air of domesticity working in contrast to unfamiliarity. It is almost tangible. The cool night air, the white tiles, the silence. But all of that is there without actually being said. It is that absence that allows you to make a world feel whole without a whole novel to bring it to life. The story is colored by your own memory of longing. It is an invitation to reflect.

The intent of the collection is epitomized in the title story of the collection, from the point of view of an unnamed character:

“The photographs I found all over the apartment were proof that these things had happened: my courtship, my wedding, the birth of my child” (Browning 142).

At its most literal level, the narrator examines souvenirs of a life that was once hers but no longer is. We feel her grief, her regret, and her remorse. Many of these emotions permeate these stories, prompting the audience to use an insular moment to imagine a life that they are not privy to. Perhaps it even evokes nostalgia for former versions of ourselves. Times when we were still in love with that girl, living with our college roommate, or simply a time in which we did not understand heartbreak in the way we do now. The stories in this collection are steeped in sentimentality for life, in all its beauty and all its discomfort. It is an act of remembrance about what it means to be human. 

The last line of the collection reads, “As she crossed the yard, Stacy had watched her, feeling the metal of the house key, warm against her skin” (Browning 220).

As we cross into the next chapter of our lives, may we always use Browning’s examination of memory as a reminder to look at our own souvenirs with grace and reverence for our past selves.

Souvenirs from Another Life is available from Quiet Ocean Studio & Press.

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 The Mothers

Sundress Reads

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.

Order your copy of The Mothers today!

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.

Sundress Reads: Review of Under The Rain

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. 

Under the Rain is available from Witsprouts Books

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.

Project Bookshelf: Brianna Eaton

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. 

A stack of books, sitting horizontal, on top of a wooden bed-side table, with the names (from top to bottom) "Moments of Being" by Virginia Woolf, "A Room of One's Own" by Virginia Woolf, "To the Lighthouse" by Virginia Woolf, "How One Should Read a Book" by Virginia Woolf, "Written on the Body" by Jeanette Winterson, "Tender is the Night" by F. Scott Fitzgerald, "Rebecca" by Daphne De Maurier, "Mansfield Park" by Jane Austen, and "Paper Girl" by Beth Macy.

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.

Project Bookshelf: Tara Rahman

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. 

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.