Tag: Sundress Publications

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.

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: 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.

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.

Sundress Academy for the Arts Presents Writing the Speculative Diaspora

The Sundress Academy for the Arts is excited to present “Writing the Speculative Diaspora,” a workshop led by Kyla-Yến Huỳnh Giffin on Wednesday, April 8th from 6:00-7:30 PM EST. This event will be held over Zoom. Participants can access the event at tiny.utk.edu/sundress (password: SAFTA).

Every story is a diaspora story, and every diaspora story is speculative in nature. In this craft talk and workshop, open to all genres, students will gain an appreciation for diaspora stories and be able to spot and understand the presence of the speculative within them. We’ll discuss perspectives on diaspora narratives from authors such as Ocean Vuong, Viet Thanh Nguyen, R.F. Kuang, and Ling Ma; diaspora stories’ role in challenging western storytelling conventions; and how diaspora pushes against genre, concepts of truth and authenticity, and the confines of individuality and representation. We’ll then discover the speculative diaspora form and its potential, and explore the speculative diaspora through writing prompts such as truth/lie (“speculative truth”)/dream activities and a collective storytelling exercise.

While there is no fee to participate in this workshop, those who are able and appreciative may make donations directly to Kyla-Yến Huỳnh Giffin via Venmo: @kylayen or PayPal @KylaYenHuynhGiffin

A black and white picture of a white person with short black hair, tattoos, and piercings, sitting in a chair, looking at the camera.

Kyla-Yến Huỳnh Giffin (they/them) is a queer and trans, biracial, Vietnamese American diaspora writer whose speculative work focuses on diaspora, transness, ecology, empire, and intergenerational histories. They are a Press Editor for Half Mystic Press, a Co-Coordinator for Sundress Publications’ Poets in Pajamas, and an Associate Editor for Iron Horse Literary Review. Kyla-Yến’s work has been nominated for Best of the Net, and appears in The Offing, Oroboro, Vănguard, and other publications. They have been awarded residencies, workshops, and/or fellowships from Tin House, the Sundress Academy for the Arts (SAFTA), Seventh Wave, Abode Press, and more.

Interview with SG Huerta, Author of Burns

The book cover centers a person on the back of a rearing horse, backlit by a burning red fire that takes up the rest of the image. The author's name, SG Huerta, is placed in smaller text at the center-top while the book's title, Burns, is is splashed across the cover four times in separate horizontal rows each time, each with varying levels of transparency.

With the upcoming release of their debut poetry collection, Burns, SG Huerta spoke with Sundress Publications editorial intern Emma Goss about their poetic choices, pushing the limits of both English and Spanish in their poems, and the significance of memory, humor, and pain, in addition to what decolonialism means to them as a queer, nonbinary writer.

Emma Goss: How is repetition used as a rhetoric for pain in your collection?

SG Huerta: My use of repetition can represent rumination or perhaps wishful thinking, like in the poem “Hurtless.” In this poem, the ending devolves into messy repetitions of the phrase “some day this will hurt less.” Repetition is also familiar, and many of the poems talk about the repetition of toxic cycles. The cover of Burns also repeats the title, which I love. I think it represents these cycles as well.

EG: How does Spanish’s integration with English, such as in “latinxpoética” or “Mi tía texts me,” reflect your cultural narrative or experience with gender?

SGH: I have a complicated relationship with both languages, which the poem “latinxpoética” delves into. Early on in my writing life, I received a lot of pushback for including any Spanish in my poetry. I grew up bilingual so of course I was deeply impacted by that attempt at cultural erasure. Currently in my poetry, I try push the bounds of English and Spanish to make more room for queer multilingual and decolonial ways of being.

EG: Humor is employed very tenderly in many of the poems in Burns; can you speak to why humor was important to include in this collection?

SGH: Humor is a very important cultural value to me! I write about some difficult things I have been through, and I fully believe that sometimes you just have to laugh so you don’t cry. Sometimes tragedy can also lead to the comically absurd.

EG: Many of these poems utilize footnotes to contextualize and interrogate the beliefs society holds about gender and trans identities; how does including footnotes extend or inflate the pathos of these poems?

SGH: Footnotes are always fun to play around with. I think it adds another layer to the poem and complicates the reading experience. In “trans poetica” specifically, the footnotes show the hidden undercurrent of what’s happening to the speaker within the poem. The speaker can feel one way about their gender, but often other people have something to say. The footnotes are a way to contend with these different voices.

EG: Colonization is one of the most potent motifs in Burns. Can you speak to the myriad ways this motif strengthens many of your poems such as “My Phone Alerts Me About Queen Elizabeth IIʼs Platinum Jubilee” and “arte poética”?

SGH: Decolonialism is a lifelong ever-present commitment. These ideas appear in so many of my poems because I’m always considering its impact on our society broadly and my culture specifically. I can’t talk about Latinx heritage without talking about colonialism.

EG: Burns does not abide by a singular poetic form. How does playing with parentheses and experimenting with form allow certain poems, including “necropoetica,” “anthropoetica,” “ignorant american,” and “Some Issues,” to complicate issues of gender?

SGH: As a nonbinary person and poet, I definitely approach gender and poetic form the same way. I work with whatever fits the occasion, which usually involves queering language in some way. I’m a firm believer in trying different forms and presentations until you find what’s right, and what’s right can always change.

EG: Many of the most emotional and vulnerable poems in this collection delve into memories of your father and childhood. Can you speak to memories’ role in the collection?

SGH: Memory is my book’s best friend. A lot of these poems felt urgent to write and record; there are many memories that only I hold since my father has passed. However, these memories get complicated, because I don’t have anyone to corroborate them. I’m able to take poetic liberty and think of what works best in the world of the poem. The line between poetry and memory is there, but it is faint at times.

SG Huerta, a Xicanx writer, is the poetry editor of Abode Press, a Roots.Wounds.Words. fellow, and a Tin House alum. The author of two poetry chapbooks and the nonfiction chapbook GOOD GRIEF (fifth wheel press, 2025), their work has appeared in Honey Literary and elsewhere. Find them at sghuertawriting.com.

A pale-skinned woman is visible from the waist up in an interior background with blue walls. She has brown-rimmed glasses, long brown hair, bangs, and she is wearing a brown tube top and a small black bag on her shoulder.

Emma Goss (she/her/hers) is a senior English major with minors in Film and Linguistic Anthropology. A passionate reader, she prefers to always be juggling a poetry collection, a literary fiction novel, and an audiobook. Emma is especially drawn to poetry rooted in nature symbolism and metaphor. Some of her favorite collections include The Tradition by Jericho Brown, War of the Foxes by Richard Siken, What the Living Do by Marie Howe, and Jane: A Murder by Maggie Nelson. Her poetry has been published in Pangyrus Magazine and by the Princeton Leonard L. Milberg ’53 Poetry Contest. Originally from Los Angeles, she spends her time hiking local trails or browsing the poetry shelves at Barnes & Noble Studio City when not at Vassar.

Meet Our New Intern: Nafisa Hussain

Despite being a voracious reader as a child, I cannot pinpoint the exact moment in my teenage years when I began to view reading as a chore rather than a delight. My memories from my earlier years are a bit blurred, but I vividly remember my father taking me out to the local library every week after school. At our run-down library, I would pick as many books as I wanted and vow to myself that I would finish them before our next trip (I would go into tunnel vision as soon as I arrived home, and finish most books within a day or two).

A smiling graduate in a navy cap and gown over a long, red dress. She is holding a diploma folder and is walking along a university campus pathway.

When I entered secondary school, although I stopped visiting my town’s local library, I would almost religiously visit my school’s library after school and during lunchtime. In English class, we would start every lesson by sitting in silence and reading our own books for approximately 10 minutes; when I tell you that everyone hated these reading sessions, I mean that everyone hated it. However, while my peers were gladly shoving their books into their bags after our ‘silent reading time’, I was once scolded by my teacher for not putting my book down after the designated 10 minutes! Looking back, I can’t fault 12-year-old Nafisa. 10 minutes is an unreasonably short amount of time to read, especially when we are being encouraged to do so in the first place.

I do not know how old I was when I stopped reading for enjoyment, but I can say that years later, when I was 17 years old, I decided to finally pick up a book again. At first, I just downloaded the Kindle app on my phone and decided to read a couple of books to pass the time. However, within weeks, I had ordered so many books to my house, as if I was trying to catch up to the words that I had missed in those handful of years. My parents would (and still do) constantly tease me, saying that if I was going to spend all my money on something, it might as well be books rather than anything else. Soon, I left for university. Every year that I moved back to London to study after spending the summer with my family, there would be no less than three bags that were jam-packed with books following me to my flat, alongside the other bits and bobs necessary to live independently, of course. It was definitely an enormous struggle to fit everything into one small car, but somehow we made it work.

During my final year at university, I had zero clue regarding what I wanted to pursue as a career. My friends around me had solid goals and careers in mind. Yet, whenever I was asked what I planned to do with my degree, I would try to steer the conversation away from myself. During a careers consultation with my university, I vented all my frustrations. I recall the career advisor simply smiling at me and asking me what I enjoyed. And then the realisation hit me. I enjoy getting lost in a good book; I enjoy losing myself in the plot and connecting with the characters and their struggles; I enjoy getting into passionate discussions with my friends about the books we’re reading, almost as much as I enjoy recommending them books and vice versa. This was my light bulb moment.

I realised I wanted to contribute to the stories and words that were to be shared with the world. My books had provided me with so much, both as a child and as an adult: they provided joy and laughter, as well as escapism. Books teach us morals and lessons; they encourage us to open our minds to differing perspectives. I will forever be glad that I was so dreadfully bored at 17, that I finally picked up a book again.

Stories have given me plenty, and I would like to help other readers feel as I have. After my careers consultation, I wanted to support writers in any way I could, so they could share their works and ideas with the world. I cannot conjure a number to reflect how many stories have genuinely touched me, but I am sure the number is in the hundreds. I’m eager to support writers with their works, with the hope that readers will feel the same connection to the words on the page that I have felt time and again, and will undoubtedly continue to feel.

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

Sundress Reads: Review of Blind to the Prairie

Sundress Reads black and white logo featuring a bespectacled sheep drinking tea, reading a book, and sitting on a stool.
Book cover of Blind to the Prairie featuring blues and yellows, including an illustrated farm as seen from above.

Blind to the Prairie (Bottlecap Press, 2025) by Tate Lewis-Carroll is a slow and tender reflection on seeing. In this collection of haiku, Lewis-Carroll captures the rhythms of the Midwestern landscape, capturing the very moments of its emptiness and subtle abundance. The chapbook invites the reader to slow down and notice the thin seam between perception and disappearance, in contrast to the fast-paced, modernized world around us. Through astonishing precision and modesty, Lewis-Carroll transforms the ordinary scenes of fields and geese into revelations of mindfulness, weaved between the philosophies of to see and to be seen.

Blind to the Prairie might appear deceptively small, yet each “breath-length” poem expands into an entire ecosystem of sound and silence. The chapbook opens with a preface in which Lewis-Carroll elaborates on their belief in the connection between haiku, nature, and peace of the mind. It reads like a manifesto, saying, “Our bowls are too easily filled. Our bones have become too dense for flight.” Haiku, a Japanese poetry form interwoven with the emptiness of the natural world, serves as a practice of unburdening, of learning to be filled with nothing. That philosophy reverberates through the collection, where the poet’s eye does not seek meaning in the prairie, so much as dissolve into it.

Early poems establish Lewis-Carroll’s blend of humor and careful, creative observations, reading,

“spring recital—

the clarinet section

wets their reeds.” ( Lewis-Carroll 3)

Through a simple metaphor, Lewis-Carroll makes the ephemeral tangible, depicting spring as a performance of lively beings rather than a season of unmovables. Similarly, they also draw the stagnant into the living through seven, simply syllables: “morning mist— / my neighbor’s silo comes and goes” (3), whereby personifying a man-made to be transient as fog, Lewis-Carroll captivates us into a world where the economic, sturdy beings are humbled to the natural world, creating a harmonious collaboration between what has been perceived as nonintersecting. Later, in a delightfully wry turn, “storming— / sunny / on TV” (4), the poet captures the absurd disjunction between mediated weather and lived weather, creating a funny contrast between the storm outside and the screen’s detached forecast.

These brief poems, though light in touch, are deeply anchored in observation. Blind to the Prairie documents a world in motion yet perpetually still. In “beyond fields, more fields,” Lewis-Carroll encapsulates the endlessness of the Midwest, the wandering of infinity where the flatness is perceived as both a physical landscape and a philosophical stance. Here, the repetition of “fields” suggests monotony and wonder, in which Lewis-Carroll sends forward an invitation to see sameness as an art of infinite variation.

Midway through the book, the haibun “White Prairie Fringed Orchid” acts as centerpiece, rooting the entire collection. Written in prose, it begins as a travelogue through Illinois farmland and turns into a reflection on the effects of environmental neglect. The narrator observes “litter glitters in sunlight among the overgrowth of clovers and poverty grass,” before discovering the endangered white prairie fringed orchid, framed as a delicate survivor in a field of monocropping corn. When the poet calls to the farmer, asking him to name this rare bloom, the farmer replies, “Weed.” That single word sets up the book’s tension, crafting and navigating the distance between human attention and voluntary blindness. The haibun does a great job of setting the scene and theme of the entire chapbook— which revolves around the often neglected details of nature. The piece prose highlights the theme of environmental pollution and contamination, weaved in between the scenes of nature appreciation.

This haibun recalls the ethical waves of Bashō’s journeys, yet it is distinctly American in its landscape and critique. The Midwest, with its “27 million acres of Illinois farmland” (10), becomes a mirror for human detachment from the natural world. Lewis-Carroll writes without scolding, and instead layers the piece with a blend of irony and tenderness: even in describing environmental destruction, there remains a tone of gratitude for what survives.

Lewis-Carroll’s language is spare yet sophisticated. Each poem functions under a haiku lens, bending light just enough to reveal the subtle textures of daily life. There is restraint in their use of sound with soft alliterations and consonants that mimic the rhythm of breath and the soft, capricious winds of nature. Their attention to line breaks is also impeccable with intentional designs of pauses. Take “ball of twine— / holding nothing together but itself (11)” as an example. The line break embodies the poem’s meaning: a taut suspension that almost, but not quite, holds.

Blind to the Prairie stands out for its craftsmanship. Bottlecap Press’s presentation of a crisp layout and generous white space, along with the luminous cover painting by Harold Gregor, all supports a minimalist aesthetic. The design and aesthetic of this book feels like an extension of its content, the sprouting of profoundness in the unassuming.

These poems in Blind to the Prairie will make you look twice at roadside weeds, moonlight and the cadence of your own breath. They restore wonder to the everyday and ask what it means to see truly. In a culture that moves too quickly, this collection offers the potency of stillness as a form of resistance and pensive, astute observation.

Blind to the Prairie is available from Bottlecap Press

Penny Wei is from Shanghai and Massachusetts. She can be seen on Dialogist, The Weight Journal, Inflectionism, Headmistress Press and elsewhere. She has been recognized by The Word Works, Longfellow House and more. She loves cultural journalism.

Sundress Reads: Review of Child of Light

Sundress Reads black-and-white logo with a sheep sitting on a stool next to the words "Sundress Reads." The sheep is wearing glasses and holding a cup filled with a hot drink in one hoof and holding an open book in the other.
There is a person with their eyes closed on the left side of the cover. They are shaded in a golden glow and the person overall has features that are a bit blended. Their hands are outwards and there is a golden light extending from their palms to the other side of the cover. The background is a dark brown. The title "Child of Light" is written on the right-hand side and the author's name Jesi Bender is at the bottom of the cover.

Child of Light by Jesi Bender (Whisk(e)y Tit, 2025) is a complex and gripping story that explores identity, language, and family dynamics as Ambrétte Memenon journeys through discovering who she is and her supposed role in her family and society. To connect with her family members, Ambrétte learns the language of their interests, including Spiritualism and electricity—two seemingly different ideas that are more similar than she realizes.

Ambrétte tries to answer four questions about Spiritualism throughout the novel:

“What is Man?

What is Soul?

What is Spirit?

& What is Life?” (Bender 18)

As the story takes place mainly in 1896, thirteen-year-old Ambrétte is considered to be a woman. She learns that she needs to act differently and speak only when she is allowed. Her Maman and older brother Modeste Georges, especially, remind her constantly that she has more responsibilities and must act how society wants her to act. Her main goal should be to find a husband. Ambrétte questions this new role and not only what it means to be a woman, but also what it means to leave childhood. She thinks that “maybe childhood was for yourself and maturity was for someone else” because she does not feel like she has a say in anything (Bender 11-12).

However, because Ambrétte is “mature” now, she is excited to have more interactions with her Maman, who thinks Ambrétte is now smart enough to converse with her. Even after years of neglect, Ambrétte is thrilled her mother is acknowledging her because at her core, she just wants to be loved and keep the family together. The only reason Maman is interacting with her is because of Ambrétte’s supposed special gift that links her to spirits. She takes this as an opportunity to learn the language of Spiritualism to please her mother. She wants to master it because “more than anything, Ambrétte [wants] to be able to see these things for her Maman. To be able to give her some peace” (Bender 11). Instead of feeling used, Ambrétte is happy that she feels needed.

Ambrétte also works hard to comprehend the complex idea of electricity to not only understand her absent engineer Papa but also to help mend her parents’ relationship. Ambrétte’s Maman and Papa have an unstable dynamic and do not understand each other at all. Maman is passionate about Spiritualism while Papa is passionate about electricity. It seems like they have absolutely nothing in common with one another. As Ambrétte does her best to grasp both ideas, however, she discovers how Spiritualism and electricity are more similar than they seem. They both involve the persistence of life and energy. She wants to help bridge the gap between her parents by being that link in helping them understand each other.

Language, including French, Spiritualism, and electricity, is a significant theme throughout the novel and Ambrétte strives to understand all of them and their relationship with each other. She must do this because these are the languages of her parents. She thinks:

“When I was young, I never realized that everything has its own language. Music is a language just as French is a language, paintings and movements, a table full of elements—maybe spirituality is the same. Maybe I need to learn how to read your body like its own specific text” (Bender 59).

Ambrétte only knows how to speak English while Papa speaks French. Papa does not make the effort to learn English so she takes on the challenge of learning French instead to dig deeper into understanding the root of her parents’ relationship and to embrace another aspect of her own identity.

Bender demonstrates how Ambrétte also becomes fluent in French through the English translations that Bender adds in the passages. Her parents converse in French and when Ambrétte is translating in her head, she cannot make out some of the words. In the novel, the dialogue is written in French and then below that is as much of an English translation as Ambrétte could comprehend. There are many blanks in between the few words that she does understand. As the story progresses, Ambrétte becomes more fluent in the language and therefore, the English translations become clearer with no blanks. She understands everything and this understanding of French is parallel to how Ambrétte becomes fluent in the languages of her parents as well.

Ambrétte spends her days trying to learn different concepts to better connect with her family, even if it is unreciprocated. She wants to be the bridge connecting humans and spirits like Maman wants, but she also wants to be the bridge to connecting her parents with each other. She wants to save her family. She wants to be loved and feel needed. But as much as Ambrétte is trying to do the saving, who will save her?

Child of Light is available from Whisk(e)y Tit

A close-up of an Asian woman with long brown hair and front bangs smiling at the camera. She is wearing a light tan cardigan and a cream-colored collar shirt with a navy blue and red ribbon tied in the front. An empty street with two parked cars is behind her and she is standing in front of a pink curtain and green hedge.

Marian Kohng (she/her/hers) is a proud Korean American and an Editorial Intern at Sundress Publications and a Traffic Copy Editor at a local news station in Tucson, AZ. She also has a Bachelor’s in Neuroscience and Cognitive Science and a Master’s in Marketing. She loves to get lost in a good book and will read just about anything, including the back of the shampoo bottle.

Interview with Patrick Joseph Caoile, Author of Tales from Manila Ave.

Cover of the book Tales from Manila Ave. The cover image shows a colorful line of people holding hands in a line, with some other abstract images.

Patrick Joseph Caoile spoke with Sundress intern Penny Wei about his latest short story collection Tales from Manila Ave., where they discussed the importance of food, play as a way to navigate migration and displacement, and living on Manila Ave. and places like it.

Penny Wei: What does it mean to belong to a place like Manila Ave, where generational history and familial warmth live alongside eviction and social class divides?

Patrick Joseph Caoile: There’s a line from one of the Nightmare on Elm Street movies that Freddy Krueger says, “Every town has an Elm Street!”, which seems to hold true. I even make a reference to this in one of my stories. In the case of Elm Street, the idea that a place is inescapable sounds like a prison. But that’s not all what a sense of place can be. For me, it’s comforting that you can find a Manila Ave. in places like Queens or Jersey City. When I lived in Lafayette, Louisiana, there was one there, too. Of course, not every Manila Ave. will have the equivalent of a strong Filipino community. Still, the name implicitly gestures towards the Philippines, and with it so many associations. With its global history as a gateway between the East and the West, the capital city of Manila is an avenue in and of itself. Manila is a metropolis of culture and commerce, but also of extreme class divide between squatters and shopping malls. In cities in the US, gentrification continues to displace those who can no longer afford to live in neighborhoods where their families have flourished for years prior. And yet, people continue to eat, dance, celebrate, mourn, and tell stories. This is how I envision Manila Ave.: a container of all these contradictions—a push and a pull, a home away from home.

PW: In several stories, food serves an important role. How do you see food operating as a bridge between cultures, identities, and memories?

PJC: I find importance not just in food, but in the making of it. When I think of Filipino food, I think of how laborious it is to make. In “Along Came a Stray” the siblings decide to roll lumpia for their Christmas dinner, just as they did when they were younger. They try to hold on to a tradition that they learned from their parents. Lumpia is a very tactile dish, a lot of chopping, mixing, wrapping. And after it’s fried and cooled, you pick one up with your fingers, dip it into some sweet chili sauce, and enjoy it. But it’s worth it. Not just the taste, but the experience. A recipe is a story, right? Beginning, middle, end. So, when I write food into a story, I find it intuitive to bring characters, backstory, and theme together. “Sinigang” definitely synthesizes those goals for me, too.

Even something as simple as coffee speaks to the wider implications of food. Coffee beans need to grow in a specific climate, be cultivated, be farmed, and be harvested. It takes a lot of labor to produce a cup of coffee. There’s also its history as a product of colonization. Alongside its dispersion is a story of displacement. On the other hand, as a beverage of leisure, you’ll find people connecting over coffee—business meetings, dates, catching up with friends, revolutions. Writers, like me, can’t write a single word without it. A lot of stories have been told over coffee. In “Kapé,” I sought to write towards these implications.

Also, I just like to eat and cook. Every writer needs sustenance. I’m a product of a childhood that was shaped by shows on PBS like Yan Can Cook and America’s Test Kitchen and Food Network, where people, food, and stories coexisted. Now, I love The Bear. I wanted to be a chef when I grew up. Maybe I still do.

PW: Catholicism, superstition, and faith run through these stories in different ways. What role does religion play in shaping the Filipino immigrant experience?

PJC: Just as food brings people together, so does religion. It’s all part of custom, like the house blessing in “A State of Grace,” the wedding in “Tong, Tong, Tong,” and the funeral in “A Balikbayan Affair.” These occasions bring together titos, titas, cousins, cousins of cousins, and anyone else who might have entered the celebrants’ lives in some way, big or small. Even the idea of being blessed by an elder, the mano po that is mentioned in “Tales from Manila Ave.,” is tied up in Catholicism. But as much as these customs celebrate grace, there are also aspects of Filipino faith that have a darker edge. Pagpag, for example, is the practice of making a tertiary stop between the site of a funeral and going back home; this way, any lingering or unsettled ghosts won’t follow. I don’t explicitly reference pagpag in “A Balikbayan Affair,” but that’s part of the reason why the family is at a truck stop saloon after the funeral. There are some stories in this collection in which I dip a toe into horror or the Gothic, and I’m definitely going to explore ways to lean into these in the future. In fact, the title Tales from Manila Ave. echoes the title of Nick Joaquin’s Tales of the Tropical Gothic, which is no accident.

PW: Some of your stories sit at the edge of childhood. How do you see childhood as a lens for reckoning with larger forces of war, dictatorship, and displacement?

PJC: I think a lot about a quote from James Baldwin, “The children are always ours, every single one of them, all over the globe; and I am beginning to suspect that whoever is incapable of recognizing this may be incapable of morality.” This has been on my mind for the past few years because of the war and genocide in Palestine, as well as the immigration raids here in the US. Whether it’s a family’s displacement from the land, or their displacement from each other, children are a witness through all of it, and so are we. Baldwin adds, “What we see in the children is what they have seen in us—or, more accurately perhaps, what they see in us.”

When I wrote these stories, I tried to center children as witnesses in some way: as communal narrators memorializing a storyteller, as sisters adjusting to an American suburb, as children trying to prevent their parents’ divorce. But even when stories take a more adult perspective, the children are always in sight, such as the widowed mother looking at her sons in the final scene of “A Balikbayan Affair,” or the first-generation Filipino American protagonists of the last two stories who are now ushering in the next generation. I think it’s important, as a worldview, to consider what it means to be a child living in an empire, where the political is always personal. Of course, Star Wars comes to mind, Avatar: The Last Airbender, too. But Scout Finch from To Kill A Mockingbird was certainly an influence in my writing, specifically as a child witnessing the changes around her, which are simultaneously political and personal.

I immigrated to the US when I was four years old. A lot of the logistics and paperwork happened behind closed doors where my parents carried the weight and anxiety of it all. I know that isn’t the same for every immigrant family. Some children need to translate for their parents, for example. But in these stories, I sought to fill in the gaps of the Filipino American immigrant story. I imagined the space between the world of children and the world of adults full of conflict, tension, and misunderstandings but also of love, hope, and connection. Children often don’t get a say in things. If they did, what would they tell us?

PW: Animals appear throughout the book. What does it mean for the nonhuman to accompany the immigrant story?

PJC: There are definitely a lot of cats in this book, prominently in “The House at the End of Maplewood Drive” and “Along Came a Stray.” In my family, we weren’t allowed to have pets growing up, except for the occasional fish or small turtle in a small tank. We had guinea pigs once, but didn’t bring them along when we moved from California to New Jersey. Only recently, just this past July, did I get my own cat, Clark Kafka “Cafecito” Kent. So, part of working cats into my stories is admittedly wish fulfillment. Usually, in that mythical notion of the American Dream, there’s a dog accompanying the mom, dad, son, and daughter. Dogs are “man’s best friend.” On the other hand, cats get a bad rep, tied up with witches and bad luck superstitions. But cats are so full of personality and also so full of care: the way a mama cat will pick up one kitten after the other to bring them to a safe place, the way she bathes them and gives them attention. The idea of bonded pairs and belonging to a litter—there’s a lot of familial connotations, like the struggle of staying together as a family. We can learn a lot from cats. Just ask T. S. Eliot and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

PW: In “Everything Must Stay” objects refuse to be discarded, even as they choke the living space. How do we measure the value of a life, or the significance/impact of a migration, with the things we keep?

PJC: The store in “Everything Must Stay” is a sari-sari, which means “miscellaneous” or “variety.” I think that meaning captures the immigrant experience in many ways. Immigrants carry a lot of baggage, literal and metaphorical. Sometimes space is limited, so what we choose to take with us must hold some kind of significance in comparison to other things. One example is the Santo Niño statue that Grace and her mother bring to their new apartment in “A State of Grace.” A toothbrush or laundry detergent—those simpler things can easily be found in a sari-sari store. At the same time, things can take on a new or second life. In the tradition of sending a balikbayan box to family in the Philippines, secondhand clothes or shelf-stable foods like canned Vienna sausages or chocolates become totems of our connection back to the motherland, back to the people we still hold dear despite the geographical distance. Objects are gifts, objects are resources. In “Everything Must Stay,” the sari-sari not only holds snacks and beauty products, but also holds the Filipino community together, and ultimately keeps the family at its center together.

PW: Childhood games—rice kites, Halloween nights, street songs—recur throughout the collection. What does it mean to return to play as a way of surviving displacement? How does childhood in general serve as a lens for exploring war?

PJC: I remember when I was just entering the first grade, when my family had just moved to New Jersey, I made friends with classmates by coming up with some really weird lore about our school. We gathered around someone’s desk, claiming that we had each seen a weird, glowing green light outside the school at night. As if we all went out of our homes, one by one, when everyone was asleep. We confirmed each other’s accounts, even drawing out a map of the school and labeling the tree where the green light was spotted. We probably could’ve passed a lie detector test; we were so convinced of ourselves. But of course, none of it was real (or was it?). I don’t know if anyone else from that class remembers, but that memory has stuck with me. As the new kid in the class, I felt welcomed by my classmates.

Play is unifying in that way—play as creative instead of competitive. Like I mentioned before, seeing the world through the eyes of children is ingrained in my approach to storytelling. Writing is play. We pretend as our characters and imagine what their lives must be like, and our task is to convince everyone else that they are true. The power of storytelling is that it centers on people, not statistics. It cuts through paperwork, bureaucracy, technicalities—that stuff of the adult world. Some might consider that escapism. At least for me, writing embraces the truth of our world. Or like how Kuya Jem does in “Tales from Manila Ave.,” it bends the truth towards magic.

PW: Several of the stories highlight women as laborers—nannies, nurses, domestic workers. Can you speak to the tension between Filipino women sustaining homes across two countries while rarely being recognized in either?

PJC: The Philippines has matriarchal roots. Despite the patriarchal structures introduced by colonization and imperialism, those roots still bloom. For example, there have been two women who’ve held office as president of the Philippines. Even through Catholicism, women seem to be the center of local religious life, leading community prayers and the rosary. They are also great storytellers in their own right; tsismis is indeed a craft. In this way, I think Filipino women might be most attuned to what it means to be Filipino. To sustain that across two countries is no easy task. It takes a lot of labor, in more ways than one. Many become Overseas Filipino Workers (OFWs) in the healthcare and hospitality industries, and others as domestic workers. Many are teachers, too, like my own mother, who is a special education teacher. In all these fields and professions, there’s a necessary and intuitive sense of care. Mia Alvar captures a lot of these sentiments in her stories from In the Country, and I am so very grateful for her kind words of support for my book. Like in her stories, I similarly sought to capture the tension between Filipino women’s professional and personal lives.

PW: How does Tales from Manila Ave. as a whole explore survival across borders and generations?

PJC: I don’t think I ever considered the theme of survival in my book. But surely it’s there. I recently came across the story “Target Island” by Mariah Rigg, and in an interview with The Common, she considers how “the short story is just like a really long obituary.” When talking about Rigg’s story with my fiction students, which is about a man’s long and harrowing life intertwined with the island of Kahoʻolawe, we noted how obituaries usually end with a list of living family members, the “survived by.” In some ways, I think it’s helpful to think of short stories as obituaries.

The dedication of Tales from Manila Ave. certainly presents this book as one: to my family and relatives “in this world and the next.” In 2023 I had lost my paternal grandmother, and in the following year, 2024, I lost my maternal grandmother. We grew up mostly away from them, but whenever my siblings and I visited them in the Philippines, they were always so happy and proud of us. The last time we had seen them in person was in 2019. Their passing was a bit of a realization that my connection to the motherland was fading. Grief is always built into the immigrant story in that way. The characters in my stories get to that realization, too. I can list all the ways my characters mourn and grieve, but I would practically be listing every one of them in my stories. They grieve their parents, spouses, and siblings. They grieve a life of what-could-have-been if they had never left the Philippines at all. They are the “survived by” who have to figure out how to live with what’s left of their loved ones: customs, traditions, faith, memories, secrets, recipes, and ultimately themselves.

Tales from Manila Ave. is available now from Sundress Publications!

Photo of Patrick Joseph Caoile, author of Tales from Manila Ave.

Patrick Joseph Caoile was born in the Philippines and grew up in northern New Jersey. His work is featured in storySouth, Porter House Review, Bright Flash Literary Review, the anthology Growing Up Filipino 3, and elsewhere. He has received support from Roots.Wounds.Words and Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing. He holds a BA in English from Saint Peter’s University, MA in English from Seton Hall University, and PhD in English with a creative writing concentration from the University of Louisiana at Lafayette. He is a visiting assistant professor of literature and creative writing at Hamilton College.

Penny Wei is from Shanghai and Massachusetts. She has been recognized by the Longfellow House, Cafe Muse, and Just Poetry, amongst others. Her works are up or forthcoming on Eunoia Review, Inflectionist Review, Dialogist, Aloka, and elsewhere.

Sundress Editorial Intern Penny Wei