Poet in Prague, Midwest-born, fluent in reinvention. Living with stage IV lung cancer and too many unread books. Writing with love and uncertainty—chasing meaning and the everyday beauty that survives
We swap hyperlink chatter for chain-mail clatter, thumb-sparks peppering cheap denim with ember freckles. No mission statement—only steel on strop or stone, queer clang leaking from the shoebox flat like pirated midnight radio.…
Authors, lend me your spreadsheets. Readers, lend me your receipts. Someone in the Sapphic writers' Discord server that I'm on asked about where I buy ebooks, after I mentioned that I'd messaged Ally North begging for literally any option other than Amazon to get the Bloom Town books. I try to avoid Amazon whenever humanly possible—yes, no matter how eager I am to read the book. I gave the question-asker my personal hierarchy of where I shop (I'll share that below), but it got me thinking: it'…
This book came to me as a metaphorically dog-eared suggestion from my friend Eliot, and I'm so glad they suggested it; it's just the sort of book I love. In The Last Hour Between Worlds, the latest release from Melissa Caruso, the author…
They crow over corpses, grin from gutted homes…
The Atlantic—salt-bitten and memory-laden—beats beneath every clause of Cantoras, and Caro De Robertis (they/them) times their prose to that tidal metronome, letting sentences drift eastward onto Uruguay's raw ocean edge.…
I snagged Fatima Daas's The Last One because someone—I forget both where and who—mentioned it had won France's Prix de Flore. Look, I'll admit it, I'm a magpie for any book that makes the French literary crowd uncomfortable enough to shower it with accolades.…
