Photo of Leopoldo Gout.

Meet the Interview Contributors for Issue 30

Issue 30 of Superstition Review will be launched December 1st, marking SR’s 15th year anniversary. This issue features interviews with five award-winning authors: Angie Cruz, Leopoldo Gout, Rudy Ruiz, Manuel Muñoz, and Raquel Gutiérrez. All interviews were conducted by Riqué “Rich” Duhamell, this semester’s interview section editor. Read about the authors below!


Angie Cruz is a novelist and editor. Her most recent novel is How Not To Drown in A Glass of Water (2022). Her novel, Dominicana, was the inaugural book pick for GMA bookclub and shortlisted for The Women’s Prize, long-listed for the Andrew Carnegie Medals for Excellence in Fiction, The Aspen Words Literary Prize, a RUSA Notable book and the winner of the ALA/YALSA Alex Award in fiction. Cruz is the author of two other novels, Soledad and Let It Rain Coffee, and the recipient of numerous fellowships and residencies. She’s published shorter works in The Paris Review, VQR, Callaloo, Gulf Coast and other journals. She’s the founder and Editor-in-chief of the award winning literary journal, Aster(ix) and is currently an Associate Professor at University of Pittsburgh. She divides her time between Pittsburgh, New York, and Turin.


A visual artist, filmmaker, and writer who hails from Mexico City, Leopoldo Gout studied sculpture at Central St. Martins School of Art in London. His work belongs to multiple collections and has been in exhibitions all over the world. After finishing his studies, Gout’s creativity extended into writing, television, and film. He is the author of the books Ghost Radio and the award-winning Genius YA trilogy, and the recently published fable for all ages, MonarcaPiñata is set to publish with Tor Nightfire in March 2023. 


Rudy Ruiz is a writer of literary fiction, essays, and political commentary. His earliest works were published at Harvard, where he studied literature and creative writing, and was awarded a Ford Foundation grant to support his writing endeavors. Seven for the Revolution was Ruiz’s fiction debut. The collection of short stories won four International Latino Book Awards.


Manuel Muñoz is the author of two previous collections and a novel. He is the recipient of a Whiting Award, three O. Henry Awards, and has appeared in Best American Short Stories. A native of Dinuba, California, he lives in Tucson, Arizona.


Raquel Gutiérrez is an arts critic/writer, poet and educator. Gutiérrez is a 2021 recipient of the Rabkin Prize in Arts Journalism, as well as a 2017 recipient of the The Andy Warhol Foundation Arts Writers Grant. Her/Their writing has recently appeared in or is forthcoming in Art In America, NPR Music, Places Journal, and The Georgia Review. Gutiérrez teaches in the Oregon State University-Cascades Low Residency Creative Writing MFA Program. Her/Their first book of prose Brown Neon is an ekphrastic memoir that considers what it means to be a Latinx artist during the Trump era. Gutiérrez calls Tucson, Arizona home.

A photo of Luanne Castle

Luanne Castle’s Rooted and Winged


Congratulations to Luanne Castle for her newest poetry collection Rooted and Winged, published by Finishing Line Press. It explores the relationship between flying and falling, the earth and the sky. Even when soaring, the poetry is grounded in small observations.

The poems of Luanne Castle’s Rooted and Winged are embedded in land and weather. “Bluegills snap up larvae in slivers of illusory light,” she writes early in the collection, hinting at the sensibilities of the companionable speaker who will usher us through the book. She sees. She is open to the world out there. She calls herself “unknown but solid,” a teller of “tiny limitless tales.” She is engaged in the retrieval of generational memory: “one hairbrush, a plastic ball / a swaying branch, leaves decaying / the insides of my grandmothers’ fridges / bubble and pop into shards of memory / dangerous to the touch,” she writes, enacting the progression from concrete detail to concrete memory to the kind of numinous memory that can be combustible. How rare it is, to discover a writer who notices that “Grandma used to stand under the bulb over the sink that haloed her and pearlized the onions she chopped,” who can bring language to this: “When the last star falls to the others, / it darkens like the hush in a theatre, / a twinkling or two from silence.” There is no arrogance in this book, but there is power.

Diane Seuss, author of frank: sonnets, Four-Legged Girl, and Still Life with Two Dead Peacocks and a Girl

Luanne Castle’s work has appeared in Copper Nickel, TAB, The American Journal of Poetry, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Verse Daily, Saranac Review, Lunch Ticket, River Teeth, and elsewhere. Her first poetry collection, Doll God, won the 2015 New Mexico-Arizona Book Award and was published by Aldrich Press. To learn more, visit her website.

Rooted and Winged is a fitting title for this collection of poems that plant themselves in reality but often hint at the surreal. Throughout, Luanne Castle has mastered sound and image: “I’ve done my best with feet and fists, my small / lungs blossoming like paper flowers in water…” The poem that lingers most for me is “A Year in Bed, with Windows” in which stark details create a palpable intimacy.

Karen Paul Holmes, author of No Such Thing as Distance

To purchase Rooted and Winged, go here.

Two of Luanne Castle’s poems—”One of Her Parents was a Float” and “Girl”—appeared in Issue 25 of Superstition Review.

A photo of Marieken Cochius by Patrick Oehler.

Guiding the Currents: Art Exhibition


Congratulations to Marieken Cochius for her new solo exhibition at SUNY Ulster’s Muroff-Kotler Gallery. The Muroff-Kotler Visual Arts Gallery showcases art to cultivate an environment of teaching, performing, and exhibiting for both SUNY Ulster’s students and the outside community. SUNY Ulster is a public community college located in Stone Ridge, New York.

Marieken Cochius’ exhibition, called “Guiding the Currents,” will be available from Oct. 7 to Nov. 29, 2022. Cochius is a Dutch-born artist who sculpts, paints, and draws to explore forms in nature. Her work has been featured as covers for Willard and Maple MagazineSun Spot Journal, and inside of Esthetic ApostleFLARDeLuge JournalAlluvian Environmental Journal, and Raw Art Review. To learn more about her, visit her website.

Cochius’s art appeared in Issue 25 of Superstition Review.

A poster for the "HomeLands" Romanian Film Festival Event. The text reads, "Film Essay Contest. So you thought it was enough to sit through several Romanian arthouse movies? Now we dare you to also write about them! If you are between the ages 18 and 25 and are passionate about cinema, we are looking for you! We challenge you to write about one of the films screened @Majestic Tempe 7 during the Romanian Film Festival, Nov. 19-20."

Romanian Film Festival: Essay Contest


HomeLands, the title of this year’s Romanian film festival, is showcasing three new movies from Romanian and European directors: Metronom, The Island, and Things Worth Weeping For. This event takes place Nov. 19 and 20 at Majestic Tempe 7. Thirty free tickets will be available to students on a first-come, first-serve basis.

People ages 18-25 who watch these movies are eligible to enter the film festival’s essay contest. Between 800-1,000 words, these essays are personal responses to one of the movies (not reviews). Submitters are encouraged to “explore what you think the film is about, using clear references from the film to illustrate your personal point of view. Refer to specific scenes, lines, shots, as well as creative choices in acting, sound design, writing, directing, cinematography.”

The winner of the contest will receive $250, and the runner-up will receive $150. Both will be featured on ARCS Arizona’s website and social media. The essay must be submitted by Nov. 30th.

To learn more about the contest and submit your essay, go here.

A photo of Jessica Lawson.

Jessica Lawson’s Gash Atlas


Winner of the Kore Press Institute Poetry Prize, Jessica Lawson’s new poetry collection Gash Atlas is both beautiful and devastating. Combining sexual violence, history, and the speaker’s own complicity, Lawson creates a twisted mirror of our own world. Suffusing this world is the figure “Christopher Columbus,” a villain personifying a long legacy of colonization and current political terror. Columbus’s lines are filled with haunting references: “there is no turning the globe can make away from me… The fake news says there is no / oxygen in space, but anywhere is breathable if you know who to pay.” This is a collection that lingers.

Gash Atlas gives us a map of words—the physical and philosophical language—to navigate a visceral reckoning. History and the present move insidiously through bodies that serve as “soft / places to plant  menace.” There is relentless difficulty, complexity, setbacks, toughness, rage. There’s hard humor alongside the exhaustion of everyday fear. Actual and symbolic horror, borne and delivered through the tender precarity of motherhood and violently performative femme-presence, show us the unsustainable cost of institutional force. How intimate it is, how prevalent, how invasive even to one’s own private thoughts—“I have a fantasy of lying down in snow and not being.” Jessica Lawson’s poems, images and stagings take the pulse of existence and offer a bold, intimate conversation that shows us just how close we—humans—are to the ultimate wreck, if we continue charting our world according to the persistent peril of ignorance.

Khadijah Queen, author of I’m So Fine: A List of Famous Men & What I Had On

Jessica Lawson’s work has appeared in The Rumpus, Entropy, The Wanderer, Cosmonauts Avenue, and elsewhere. Gash Atlas is her first book. To learn more about Lawson, visit her website.

Behind every great man/ is too much forgiving/ and an awl of blood” writes Jessica Lawson in Gash Atlas, a collection that erodes the statue Christopher Columbus has erected like a gash in each subjectivity colonized by powerful men. Lawson has given us poems that strike a balance between daring to ask the urgent questions and posing them with the care of one who knows how language often operates as a colonial mode.

Raquel Salas Rivera, author of lo terciario/ the tertiary and while they sleep (under the bed is another country)

To purchase Gash Atlas, go here.

We’re also very excited to share an interview that dives deeper into Lawson’s collection. This interview was conducted via email by our Blog Editor, Brennie Shoup.


Brennie Shoup: What inspired you to create Gash Atlas?

Jessica Lawson: I had multiple moments of inspiration, or at least motivation, that defined this project for me. The first was the 2016 election, which transformed my previous plans to write a manuscript about maps into a project that was much more directly political. I began to accrue poems about the terror of that current moment, as well as the violent histories informing it. The character of an antagonist emerged, who would later become Christopher Columbus. Then a second defining moment came, this time more quietly but perhaps more powerfully. It was when I realized that my book wasn’t just, or only, about Trump, but was about the complicity of my own speaker in the violence he was performing. The book didn’t really come together for me until I did the difficult work of problematizing the voice through which the book itself is coming, letting the book question its own speaker. The book and its composition, in real time, became about strategies for fighting against a system that imbues one’s own subject position. It’s why I gave the book an epigraph that came from a protest slogan by liberal white women, and attributed it to Columbus. My book is about maps, about violence, about Trump, and about white womanhood, and I realized each of these through the act of writing it.

BS: Your collection includes what’s been described as visual and poetic “maps.” Would you be able to discuss why you used the forms you did in this collection?

JL: Visually experimental literature is something I’ve been passionate about for a long time, and is reflected in a lot of the work I’ve already published. I think there is sometimes a misconception that visual literature, or experimental literature more broadly, is necessarily apolitical, and I’d love to see that change. Visual and hybrid poetry gets associated with a messed-up school of poetic elitism that uses “experiment” as a way of looking down upon any readers who can’t (or don’t wish to) understand it. And while there are absolutely writers who create experimental literature that way (those are the boring ones), there is also a rich history of activist writers who use experimentation to activate their texts and their readers, jolting us out of our seats by demonstrating that this is not business as usual. So, that’s a big part of why the forms of these pieces are so important to me. Sometimes, the political needs of the time necessitate breaking away from the forms we’ve inherited. Sometimes, when the world feels like it’s breaking apart, the pages and words need to break with it.

BS: Gash Atlas examines both past and present atrocities, with a particular focus on Christopher Columbus. Could you describe what your research process looked like?

JL: I was researching for this book long before I ever knew I’d write it. I remember years ago learning that Columbus was a terrible navigator, that he thought that the globe was shaped like a pear (or breast) rather than a sphere, that he wholly mistook the place he landed for an entirely different continent. I didn’t know I’d ever be using those bits of information to write poems, but once I decided to include Columbus in the book, this entire set of trivia flooded back in. From there, most of the other research had to do with the present moment I was writing in. I wrote about the United State’s opposition to the U.N. resolution banning the death penalty for homosexuality as it happened. I felt like my book wasn’t just reaching back into a history I’d already learned, but sprinting frantically forward after history as it was happening. The very last poem I put in the book, days before my draft was due to my press, responded to the January 6 attack on the Capitol. I was scared as I wrote it, both about what had just happened, and about having to let go of the manuscript before Trump left office. In a way, it feels like he never did.

BS: Do you have plans for future poetry collections or novels?

JL: I’m currently working on a second book of poems (though, like Gash Atlas, it includes hybrid elements that sometimes complicate its status as poetry). It’s about the body’s relationship to money, sexuality, and trauma. I’m getting pretty far along: the structure is falling into place, and a substantial portion of the poems have been written. Now I’m working on making the space to really look at it and push it toward completion (which is a challenge to do while I’m teaching four classes and raising three children). I’m excited and scared about it, which makes me think I’m where I need to be.

¿Y Ahora Que? On Sales and Stories: A Guest Post by Oscar Mancinas

¿Y Ahora Que? On Sales and Stories: A Guest Post by Oscar Mancinas

BIFF: He had the wrong dreams. All, all, wrong.

HAPPY, almost ready to fight Biff: Don’t say that!

BIFF: He never knew who he was.

CHARLEY, stopping, Happy’s movement and reply. To Biff: Nobody dast blame this man. You don’t understand: Willy was a salesman. And for a salesman, there is no rock bottom to the life. He don’t put a bolt to a nut, he don’t tell you the law or give you medicine. He’s a man way out there in the blue, riding on a smile and a shoeshine. And when they start not smiling back—that’s an earthquake. And then you get yourself a couple of spots on your hat, and you’re finished. Nobody dast blame this man. A salesman is got to dream, boy. It comes with the territory.

BIFF: Charley, the man didn’t know who he was.

-Arthur Miller, Death of Salesman

I remember reading Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman in high school. I remember it becoming one of, like, six things I was assigned to read that I actually liked—and that I like still, mostly. And I remember how frustrating I found our class discussions of it.

Probably his most taught play, Miller’s Death of a Salesman inevitably gets packaged into a unit meant to inform students, however vaguely, about “America.” The other typical texts found alongside Miller’s work are: Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, Whitman’s “I Hear America Singing,” and, if you had, or have, an especially edgy high school English teacher, either something by Langston Hughes or Ralph Ellison. If a teacher were to genuflect towards discussions of “gender roles,”—in the most abstract, superficial way—they might also include writings by Dickinson or, and I’m sorry for those whose painful memories I’m about to trigger, Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter. (Apologies for reviving memories of painful boredom, but let’s continue).

Because of this framing, at the behest of policy makers or other administrative bodies, teachers contort texts to get students to answer or to complicate the question “What is America?”And, as far as I know, the answer to this question in these classrooms is never: America is a colonial name for many lands, waters, and skies encompassing much of the western hemisphere—and not, contrary to popular use, just the name of one nation in that hemisphere more commonly called the United States. Instead, this framing and subsequent classroom conversations reduce texts like Death of a Salesman to commentary about destiny and hope/lessness—failing to comment both on its literary merits and the basic human fear I believe to be at the heart of the play. Instead, in our class, we talked a lot about “the American Dream” and what role it had in Willy Loman’s death. Spoiler: it had a MAJOR role and maybe the “dream” ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve tried not to begrudge high school English teachers for these things. Like many of us, high school teachers are pushed to meet certain expectations and objectives outside of their control, and so many of them do the best they can to turn dry-ass, standardized test questions into engaging activities. (While I know not all teachers do their best with what they have, and some blame students for shortcomings, but that’s a different essay for a different day.)

For the past decade, though, I’ve worked with enough students, who’re either in or just out of high school, to know these discussions do injustice to them, their curiosity, and to the authors they’re asked to engage. This on top of the disservice done, by way of omission, to authors of color, queer authors from all backgrounds, and more contemporary authors in general. You think anyone writing now might have something meaningful to say about what “America” is and is not? Personally, as a writer coming from a marginalized community, I can’t help but wonder what types of readings would be imposed upon my writing, should it ever find its way into U.S. high school curricula. Can you imagine?

Don’t get me wrong—lest you believe this is just another article in the genre of “everything is terrible now and will probably remain terrible for always”—I keep coming back to Death of Salesman because of how it haunted me as a kid, and how it haunts me still. As evident in the excerpt opening this essay—taken from the play’s “Requiem”—Willy Loman’s ultimate misstep as a tragic figure, and the fear at the center of Miller’s work, was not knowing who he was. Or, better said, he knew who he was and rejected that version of himself, leaving his self-destruction as the only remaining path.

How scary is that? To dedicate yourself to cultivating a specific purpose or self-understanding only to realize you’re wrong and can’t possibly go on for another day? Even as a teenager—maybe because I was a teenager—this type of revelation terrified me. As someone raised by Mexican immigrant parents in a working-class neighborhood, I’d been taught to always look forward, no matter what. Looking back was reserved for fleeting, drunken nights with like-wounded confidants. On these occasions, everyone would reflect on fleeing similar circumstances—surviving multiple border crossings or the loss of an Indigenous homeland—and they’d indulge escapist fantasies about “going back” as triumphant heroes. These fantasies were meant as relief to life at the moment, which felt especially oppressive and unrelenting.

As a kid, I’d listen to my parents, tíos, tías, and cousins reminisce about the paradise they’d left behind in México—“a kingdom where nobody dies” to borrow Edna St. Vincent Millay’s words on childhood. But in their more sober moments, the adults also acknowledged their México, through forces foreign and domestic, through obstacles inherited, imposed, or self-created, had made survival for them nearly impossible. So, they left. They left and probably realized quickly, there’d be no going back.

What if they’d made a mistake?

I left home at eighteen. I left partially because I thought I was fulfilling my end of a deal made by my parents; they left their homes to give us a chance to leave ours, essentially, and I was all too determined to make both of our decisions feel correct. In my time away, however, I struggled. Whether it was the world changing around me, or my own trepidation at making the wrong choice(s) and being unable to live with myself after, I struggled. And I struggled to admit I was struggling, and I struggled to figure out what to do about it.

Thankfully, I eventually realized I cared about few things more than: 1) communities like the ones I came from, and 2) writing. And, lucky for me, I found people who helped me turn the things I care about into opportunities to teach, to study, and to write. I try not to take this for granted, especially since I still remember a time not long ago where I thought I had chosen the wrong things to dedicate myself to, and all I had left was to reach the end of my life and sigh.

Still, even when I decided to come home a few years ago, I couldn’t help but wonder: had I made the wrong decision to leave in the first place? What if coming back turns out to be the same as giving up on a dream? What if I settled for less because my fear of more overtook me? These are all good and terrifying questions. Questions I suspect many people confront daily, and I’ll probably never be able to answer them—something that also scares me. Instead, for now, I’ll
try to retrace some of my steps, hoping to discern some pattern, something that’ll make me react the way my former professor, and author of Womanish, Kim McLarin says a reader ought to react at the end of a good book: *gasp* of course!

So, back to frustrated teenage me in my high school English class and another one of those six things I was assigned to read but still enjoyed. Even though I had already read The House on Mango Street[1], when my junior English class read Sandra Cisneros’s 1983 coming-of-age novel as part of our “What is America?” unit, I remember the story hitting me differently. Maybe it was because I already knew the text, so revisiting it was like seeing an old friend; maybe it was because, as the sole Mexican kid in my “advanced” English class, I was the only one who could reflect autobiographically on Cisneros’s words; or maybe it was because I was starting to look at colleges and colleges were looking back at me, so leaving home felt less abstract and more inevitable. Regardless, I came back, again and again, to the novel for guidance during my wandering. And, gratefully, the novel never failed to tell me something useful:

One day I will pack my bags of books and paper. One day I will say goodbye to Mango. I am too strong for her to keep me here forever. One day I will go away. Friends and neighbors… will not know I have gone away to come back. For the ones I left behind. For the ones who cannot out.

No matter how hard they tried, teachers never convinced me The House on Mango Street was about “America” or its dream. It was about us, nosotros, the readers Cisneros knew were out here looking for guidance, navigating forces telling us how to be and where to go.

Originally, Cisneros published her breakthrough novel with the legendary Arte Público Press, one of the oldest and continuously running publishing houses for Latinx literature in the U.S. Although they later had their disagreements—another topic for another essay—the collaboration between Cisneros and APP, years before I was born, created a path for me to stumble onto and find my way. Their partnership helped me combat things this country tried to tell me: I wasn’t lost all along; I wasn’t alone; my uncertainty and fear wouldn’t always be in charge; it was possible to tell my stories without having them distorted; and, maybe most importantly, it was okay to come back home. It took a coalition of writers, publishers, teachers, artists, scholars, and activists to keep these lessons alive, and I hope my efforts vindicate their decisions to keep fighting.


If you’ve made it this far, I want to say thank you. I originally wrote this essay in August 2019[2] to announce that I had signed a contract to publish my debut collection of short fiction. Since that time, I wrote and published that collection, and To Live and Die in El Valle went on to win a 2021 Border Regional Library Association Southwest Book Award.

So, like I originally intended in 2019, this essay still serves as a reminder to me—and hopefully to you—of how we protect and promote our stories because we care about them and the people they impact. Ultimately, our stories and the sacrifices that go into writing, editing, publishing, and sharing them don’t amount to much without people receiving them and using them to survive. Even though I’ve been guilty of adding to the online chorus of writers who proclaim ourselves to be walking wounds, motivated by an inescapable obsession to write but who are also unable to find joy in what we do, I wanted to acknowledge the community of writers, readers, and teachers—both past and contemporary—without whom, I can’t imagine where I’d be. Three years and a lifetime later, I’m still writing, still reading, and still teaching. I feel more grateful than ever to be able to share.


[1] Sidenote: shoutout to Mrs. Valenzuela’s seventh grade English class, I was a shitty thirteen-year-old huerco to you, and I’ll
regret it ‘til the day I die.

[2] Originally published in Latinxsbelike.com

A photo of Percival Everett.

TomorrowTalks with Percival Everett: The Trees


Join ASU’s TomorrowTalks with Percival Everett, November 3rd at 6pm AZ time. TomorrowTalks is a student-engagement initiative meant to put students in conversation with authors who explain how they use their writing to address society’s most pressing issues. It’s led by the Division of Humanities at ASU and hosted by ASU’s Department of English in partnership with Macmillan Publishers.

This event takes place over Zoom and is free, although registration is required. Everett will be discussing his book The Trees, published by Graywolf Press. Winner of the 2022 Anisfield-Wolf Book Award, this novel deals with a series of devastating and puzzling murders in Money, Mississippi. As detectives attempt to figure out what’s going on, they discover that similar murders are taking place all over the country. In the process, they must reckon with America’s brutal history of racism and police violence.

Everett has mastered the movement between unspeakable terror and knockout comedy.

Amy Rowland, The New York Times Book Review

Percival Everett has written over twenty novels and is a Distinguished Professor of English at the University of Southern California.

“The Trees” is a wild book: a gory pulp revenge fantasy and a detective narrative. . . . [It] is just as blood-soaked and just as hilarious as Inglourious Basterds or Django Unchained, but it comes with more authentic historical weight for being set in a dreamlike counterpresent.

bookforum

To learn more about TomorrowTalks and register for the event, go here.

A photo of Katherine Soniat.

Katherine Soniat’s Polishing the Glass Storm


Congratulations to Katherine Soniat for her new poetry collection Polishing the Glass Storm, published by LSU Press. Described as a “riveting sequence of verse,” Soniat’s language delves into the relationship between vision and experience.

I am in awe of Katherine Soniat’s latest collection… Her poetic energies and talents are many and fierce—mystery, imagination, story, knowledge, music and wonder. Here, the narrator wings us through birth, fear, sorrow, loss (including the loss of her own twin at birth)—as she says, “in love as I am with absence”—as generations unfold and fold, in image and story. Some of those stories are “soft ones, with feathers at the bottom,” told “with the island nature of the mind.” Others are so tactile and gripping, they were surely written with the narrator’s bare knuckles r the bear’s “warm saliva,” leaving the reader “freshly skinned and slick…” This collection captivates, energizes and charms. I’ll return to it again and again.

dannye Romine powell, author of in the sunroom with raymond carver

Katherine Soniat currently teaches in the University of North Carolina at Asheville’s Great Smokies Writers Program. She has published numerous collections and chapbooks, many of which have received awards. Among them are the Camden Poetry Prize, the Iowa Poetry Prize, and a Virginia Prize for Poetry. To learn more about her, visit her website.

Katherine Soniat speaks like a mystic in her collection… She travels a landscape of mythology and memory to explore the mystery of existence in “thin places” where there is an overlap between the living and the dead. The prismatic poems o this sequence b rush up agains the “intimacy of time” like “bees in a crazed terrarium.” Soniat displays her mastery as a poet while introducing us to many selves in this marvelous collection of poems.

alison pelegrin, author of our lady of bewilderment

Soniat’s poems “Sister Feather” and “Knees” appeared in Issue 14 of Superstition Review.

To purchase Polishing the Glass Storm, go here.

A flyer for the Indigenous Author Panel

Indigenous YA Author Panel


On Tuesday Nov. 1st, from 5:00pm – 6:15pm, hear Indigenous authors’ perspectives on diversity, inclusion, and equity in Native American YA literature. Featured authors include Dr. Debbie Reese, Brian Young, and Cynthia Leitich Smith.

Dr. Debbie Reese founded the American Indians in Children’s Literature (AICL) and wrote An Indigenous Peoples’ History of the United States for Young People. Brian Young has worked on a number of films, and his most recent book The Healer of the Water Monster is the American Indian Youth Literature Award Winner: Best Middle Grade Book. Finally, Cynthia Leitich Smith has written a number of books, among them Rain is Not my Indian Name, and won a variety of awards.

This event is free and takes place over Zoom. It’s being hosted by the Arizona Department of Education–Office of Indian Education and Arizona Humanities. To learn more and register, go here.