by Asa Drake
It is the forbidden color. Pick another.
Asa Drake is a Filipina/white poet in Central Florida. She is the author of Maybe the Body (Tin House, 2026) and Beauty Talk (Noemi Press, 2026), winner of the 2024 Noemi Press Book Award. Her poems are published or forthcoming in the American Poetry Review, Georgia Review, Poetry, and Sewanee Review. A former librarian, she currently works as a teaching artist.
by Phoebe Reeves
I am a rabbit in a thicket, a thick
patina of rust on a fire hydrant, a third
degree burn on a forearm which shielded
a face from worse—and I am crouching,
thighs coiled springs, ready to run hither and
thither, the third, the thirteenth, the thirtieth set
of thighs so sprung, like that sound just beyond
hearing—a Thompson submachine gun,
dealing death in the third-person.
What’s the difference between thick-skinned
and thick-witted in this landscape, anyway?
Thistle down floats by, something so soft,
pulled from the heart of something bristly
and bitter. That’s a metaphor, you know.
Thomas had to put his fingers in the seed pod
to feel the contradiction for himself.
Some things require first-hand validation,
no third party reporting, no theft of experience.
No one here gets to third base without
stealing second. It’s thirsty work and
only a thimbleful of whiskey lies in my palm.
This is where I remain. The cover
is thin. The urge to break and run
is unbearable. And dumb.
____________________________________________________________
Phoebe Reeves has an MFA from Sarah Lawrence, and is Professor of English at the University of Cincinnati. She has three chapbooks of poetry, most recently The Flame of Her Will (Milk & Cake), and one full length collection, Helen of Bikini (Lily Poetry). Her poems have appeared in The Gettysburg Review, Best New Poets, Forklift OH, and The Chattahoochee Review. She lives in Cincinnati with her husband Don Peteroy, amidst her unruly urban garden.
by Mac Crane
It’s #tbt! Enjoy this great one from SWWIM Every Day‘s archives!
____________________________________________________________
expect to run into at least six or seven exes.
maybe some girls who wouldn’t dare call you
an ex, not even to make someone jealous.
it’s easy to tip the scales
when your stomach is heavy with secondhand prayer.
what’s that in the blonde’s mouth?
it shimmers like liquid mercury—
only here, none of us has the chance
to rise. they want you down & out
& on the prowl. Gossip, home of the
three-finger pour & finger-me Fridays,
looks like a home if you were born
where gravity forgets to breathe.
I’ll take something I regret for 1,000
we say to the bartender, her hair
short & wavy beneath her snapback.
we give the straight couples the side-eye,
the you-could-have-gone-anywhere-else face.
we fight about what it means
to be inclusive when oppressors crowd
your space. in Gossip, everyone’s smiling
but no one’s happy. we dip our noses in
our beer, we do the bro lean, we do the
head nod. in ten year’s time we don’t want
to still be drinking here but for now, we don’t have
any reason to resist the plunge. in Gossip, we break
our own hearts & pretend to like it. we grow
a million hands & point them every
which way. our own ancestor clocks gone
haywire. the lights turn down low.
we are at once turned off & turned on.
they say that lesbians want to pair up,
that when two women get together
they’re twice as dramatic, three times
as emotional—but I’ve been here since nine
& haven’t seen a single emotion
that didn’t have a gag in its mouth.
in Gossip, there are no undercover cops.
in Gossip, we aren’t afraid for our lives,
but that doesn’t stop us from
calling tomorrow an indecent fantasy.
we hate to consider what shape we take
in someone else’s memory. our exes aren’t
very forgiving & who can blame them?
these bashful desires aren’t so bashful
anymore. it’s terrifying to be a person
when the whole world’s watching.
a regular vomits in the bathroom, another
in the trash can behind the bar, another
in the plant out on the patio. we dig into each other,
hoping to come away with a set of blueprints.
or at the very least, evidence of our disconnect.
what can we say? disappointing ourselves
is our favorite way to delay the responsibility of joy.
two-for-one drinks. swipe & swipe & swipe
& edit bio & upload new pic & curse Tinder &
anyone who has ever used it. what is the use
of earnestness? no one here can say for sure.
the sky outside is black & blue like my knuckles
back when I punched that dude for hitting
on my ex-girlfriend. ask anyone in here & they’ll say
that they want something real but when you ask
what constitutes real, all you get are puffs of smoke.
in the early mist of morning, we crawl from Gossip’s depths.
we blink at all the tiny cars & monstrous clouds.
when the sun comes up, we wait for something
extraordinary to happen. for something to justify our cagey hearts.
one by one, we become our own emergencies.
____________________________________________________________
Mac Crane is a jock, sweatpants enthusiast, and the award-winning author of I Keep My Exoskeletons to Myself, A Sharp Endless Need, and Perverts. They have received fellowships from the Sewanee Writers' Conference, American Short Fiction, and Vermont Studio Center, and their short work has appeared in Literary Hub, The Sun, TriQuarterly, Prairie Schooner, Joyland, and elsewhere. Originally from Allentown, Pennsylvania, they currently live in San Diego with their wife and two kids.
by Alice Duggan
I was busy with happiness when I pulled out and hit the other car.
Thought I could let my attention fly high with the spring sun. No.
True, no one was hurt. True, the other car’s driver was kind. And true,
that winter had been grindingly long, and I was in a frenzy of joy—
had been. As I drove home all of my clan followed behind,
disapproving. All of my tribe shrugged and collectively raised
one eyebrow. That they were all dead only served to sharpen
my understanding. Of their opinions. As I drove home.
Ecstasy’s not in the public life of my people,
it would be a private matter. But didn’t they laugh?
And wasn’t there the deepest gladness in that sound . . .
____________________________________________________________
Poems by Alice Duggan have appeared in Sleet Magazine, Water~Stone Review, Tar River Poetry, Alaska Quarterly Review, Poetry East, Nimrod, Sugar House, SAND, Poet Lore, and elsewhere; in a chapbook, A Brittle Thing; and in an anthology, Home (Holy Cow! Press). She’s interested in dailiness, in colloquial speech, the rhythm of voices, in telling stories.
by Kathleen Winter
She was so tired of I She thought she might kill her
but that was too much in sync with society’s violence
so She just sent I to Libya for a while, which, come
to think of it, struck She as potentially more dangerous.
She’s maxed out on I’s gripes and wiles, worse than
Berryman’s plus less original. She can’t read another
syllable about I’s nasty childhood, current ills,
her aches either in the organ meat or in opaque layers
of abstraction. She knows I’s tricks, her jokes;
She finds them juvenile. She wishes I would reinvent
herself, take herself to task, to heart, to a Devon
swannery, to the moon. She used have a tolerance
for I, like the tolerance She’s old teacher would
from time to time note that some ancient bard
(Auden?) had for a rare rhetorical strategy or twist
of syntax. A tolerance, good Dubie would explain.
I must know She’s lost it, that grace or patience
She once sent I’s way. Now I is out of Africa, yet
She claims she won’t see her, hear her, think of her.
I hopes this all eventually blows over;
She and I share too much history to throw it all away.
_________________________________________________________
Kathleen Winter is the author of Transformer, I will not kick my friends, and Nostalgia for the Criminal Past. Her poems have appeared in The New Republic, The New Statesman, Prairie Schooner, Michigan Quarterly Review, Yale Review, Agni, Shenandoah, and Cincinnati Review. Her awards include the Poetry Society of America The Writer Magazine/Emily Dickinson Award, the Rochelle Ratner Memorial Prize and the Ralph Johnston Fellowship at University of Texas's Dobie Paisano Ranch.
by Melanie McCabe
The spool between my daughter and me unwinds and rolls
out of reach. Pulling only propels it farther, and so
I wait, my hand clenched on slack thread that now can be
no more than a reminder tied around a finger.
It would seem that I am done with sewing. My old stitches
will either hold or unravel, and I must live with knowing that
I was never much of a seamstress—though I tried.
I loved and I hated the lulling repetition of it.
This needle left in my hand is neither tool nor weapon—
only something sharp that pricks the memory of a motion
that once was effortless; seaming as natural as breathing
with the soft of that silk held close in my arms.
_________________________________________________________
Melanie McCabe's debut novel, Road Longer Than Memory, was released from Oceanview Publishing in June of 2026. She is also the author of four books of poems, most recently All The Signs Were There, which won the Longleaf Press Poetry Prize. Her memoir, His Other Life: Searching For My Father, His First Wife, and Tennessee Williams, won the 2016 University of New Orleans Press Prize.
by Samantha Strong Murphey
when she gives them the tokens she gives them with a warning
it’s a scam, built to cheat you, a lesson in false hope
when the token is plunked into the slot anyway
when the joystick jolts the claw’s clumsy arm
when it grazes a rubber ducky at the top of the pile
when one ducky touches another ducky
when the spirit moves in the hearts of the duckies
when the spirit moves the bodies of the duckies
when an avalanche of rubber duckies is triggered by something bigger than us
when it’s raining rubber duckies when rubber duckies
are flooding the base of the machine
when one child holds the flap open and another scoops the duckies to her chest
when the prodigal duckies are finally welcomed home
when the duckies start spilling onto the floor
when everyone in the arcade stops to witness the miracle of the duckies
when everyone in the arcade stops to feel the radiant abundance of, I think, joy
when the kids begin to dance in the pile of duckies, to toss them into the air, to laugh
when one child turns to the mother, palms cupping a singular rubber ducky, an offering
when he says see?
do you see?
_________________________________________________________
Samantha Strong Murphey has an MFA from NYU and has been supported by Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference and Vermont Studio Center. She teaches writing at UT-Dallas and reads submissions for Texas-based journal Sine Qua Non. Before poetry, Sam was a journalist and has a rich unwritten resume as a full-time caregiver to three human children, a rescue cat, and a rescue dog.
by Jennifer Jackson Berry
It’s #tbt! Enjoy this great one from SWWIM Every Day‘s archives!
_________________________________________________________
Antique store find: this aphorism on a trivet.
I buy it for irony. I could hurt him
with a thunder thigh squeeze, a motorboat suffocation.
I’m debating whether to hang this as a makeshift plaque
or place every hot pot on it.
I joke when I sit around the barn, I sit around the barn.
When the barn door opens, so plump.
There is harm done sometimes
taking the pressure off,
like once the body knows crush—like every time I ask he says—
the organs are rearranged—no, you’re not hurting me.
_________________________________________________________
Jennifer Jackson Berry is the author of two books, The Feeder and To Know Crush, both available from YesYes Books.
by Tyler Mills
by Catherine Bowman
Tonight, the sky the color of a velvet
blue boot, thrifted, long lost. Cast-off
clouds, the remnants and remains
after seven wild nights of cord-cutting rituals.
Wild mustard in the windrows, moss, cedar ponds,
rosary beads and wishbones in the window.
Those cast-about stars. The king of threads
makes blades of grass. The night you unlocked
the secret we swallowed, the oyster’s
sea-sky velvet. Did that ever happen?
My mother said she had red eggs for breakfast.
Last night I heard the coyotes two-by-two in the distance.
I remember ten years’ worth of rosary beads
and wishbones in a jar in the distance.
Is that how it happened?
Outside they’re burning leaves.
Faraway, the owl at night, the short-eared owl.
The dog that cries when the little boy
who lost his dad whistles. I thought I’d whistle.
That might have happened.
I thought we would gamble together,
ice on our tongues, dice across the table.
But that never happened. Wishbones,
the rosary beads’ descant. The wind through the trees.
A blue manatee Christmas ornament,
rosary beads, blues, brined and salted dreams.
Wild mustard, loss, the devil-may-care cedar waxwings.
You woke me to a clarinet solo.
Then we went for a ride, rode double,
because we had only one saddle.
____________________________________________________________
Catherine Bowman is the author of 1-8OO-HOT-RIBS, Rock Farm, Notarikon, The Plath Cabinet, and most recently, Can I Finish, Please? She also edited Word of Mouth: Poems featured on NPR’s All Things Considered. Her poems have appeared in The New Yorker, Ploughshares, The Paris Review, The LA Times and Best American Poetry, among other journals. She teaches at Indiana University.
by Deborah Ager
This afternoon, as you sit by me, all the white sheets shiver.
With my eyes closed, we are far outside this hospital,
on the Rehoboth Beach sand, under the salted water,
just your skin and my skin with their rivers of scars
trickling, teaching our fingertips where to go every night.
But the time now, the time before surgery, is short, too short
because hours here melt away, and you are led away
and I am rolled behind a student doctor wearing rose-pink shoes.
It'll all be okay, she says, and I have frozen, just taking in white
upon white in the hallway and, inside the room, the woman
who bends over the sterile instruments, examining them,
her back to me. You were there before and now I have forgotten
until another doctor says to think of something sweet
before covering my face with a blue-tinted mask, soft as your fingertips,
and I inhale, thinking of everything your hands know how to do.
____________________________________________________________
Deborah Ager won the 2026 Zócalo Poetry Award. She’s the founding editor of 32 Poems Magazine, and she co-edited The Bloomsbury Anthology of Contemporary Jewish American Poetry. Her writing has been featured on Milk Street Radio and in Quarterly West, The Georgia Review, North American Review, and elsewhere.
by Maegan Gonzales
I am watching a little boy in a red-striped shirt.
The boy’s father feeds a mouse to his sister’s snake.
The girl is maybe four years old. The boy not far behind.
*
The father makes the children watch while the snake
pulls back, wobbles just to still, and snaps at the mouse.
The father laughs, the girl laughs, but the boy cries so hard
that there is no noise wailing from his open mouth.
*
The snake’s name is Iono because the little girl tries to say
“I don’t know” when the father asks what its name will be.
The boy is not there.
*
The father lets Iono coil three times around
the little girl’s unsuspicious neck.
Her body tightens.
*
I lay in bed with a hand on my belly.
Iono’s glass tank is in my bedroom.
There are no children.
*
The little girl is mine.
Iono is somewhere, hungry again.
I knead my stomach with a fist.
*
The boy hasn’t been born.
Iono stalks the mouse,
belly pushing sawdust
in that terribly long glass house.
*
I am in another goddamn bed.
I begin to knead again.
Iono has escaped.
I press down hard.
____________________________________________________________
Maegan Gonzales is an interdisciplinary southern artist, writer, certified yoga instructor, and educator living in southwest Louisiana. Her poem, “Portrait of Complicity,” won the 2025 Editor’s Prize from Sundog Lit, and her writing has recently appeared in Bear Review, Sprung Formal, and more. She teaches composition and literature at McNeese State University, performs locally with her community theatre, and offers Yoga Under the Oak at Imperial Calcasieu Museum.
by Stacie Kiner
It’s #tbt! Enjoy this great one from SWWIM Every Day‘s archives!
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“…this voice was never mine,
nor even yours.”
—Lawrence Raab
Our world slowly spinning
unbuttons itself—
this is a difficult home.
And you, the reason for this telling
the way memory and subtraction fool us,
a sun-warmed key lime
sliced in half
its juice on your tongue.
Your husband gone
taking your child for shoes
and you, eyes closed;
falling straight to the heart of God—
the smooth slide into the back
of a cooled taxi’s leather seat.
But maybe everyone is always
almost drowning;
and maybe this is all
you want to be.
Like the mailbox as a child
I stuffed with snow,
you could not receive a thing.
Stitching back up
the blood you lose each month,
forgetting the march of happiness
down to your toes,
forgetting our world still spins
with its nature of hope.
So I ask for everything—
I don’t know where to stop.
Hands tight on a wheel
one fine turn away—
and all the ways to want things;
and all the things
we shouldn’t want.
____________________________________________________________
Stacie M. Kiner was the recipient of the Hannah Kahn Memorial and The Plainsong Awards. Her poems have appeared in Calyx, Madison Review, Comstock Review, Apalachee Quarterly, Ekphrastic Review, Lavender Review, Panoply, Plainsong, Rhino, Southeast Review, SWWIM, Thimble, and Chameleon Chimera: An Anthology of Florida Poets as well as in the chapbooks Inventory and Abbey Road. Stacie is the Essays Editor for the South Florida Poetry Journal. A retired librarian, Stacie resides in South Florida with her wife. See staciemkiner.com.
by Regina Caggiano
by Tiana Nobile 문영신
I’m in the birth pool in your room, my cheek resting
against the blue inflatable wall, my body swollen with water.
You are swimming in my amniotic fluid. Outside,
the sky spits rain while I rage in the water.
It is the end of the second day. Rea touches my face.
She holds a straw up to my lips to take a sip of water.
She places a cool wet cloth on my forehead as I grind
my teeth, my face speckled with beads of water.
I can’t contain my hunger. It’s been over 24 hours,
and it still hasn’t ruptured, my bag of waters.
Ross plays “River” by Leon Bridges, and I try to manifest a wave
pouring out of me in a gush of blood and water.
Through the window, I count clouds,
pink billowing masses of air and water.
I can almost feel you scratching at the walls from the inside.
I tell you, come. Pleading, soon. Together, we roar in the water.
____________________________________________________________
Tiana Nobile 문영신 is the author of Cleave (Hub City Press, 2021). She is a Korean American adoptee, member of the The Starlings Collective, and recipient of a Rona Jaffe Foundation Writer's Award. Her writing has appeared in Poetry Northwest, The New Republic, Lit Hub, and Southern Cultures, among others. She lives with her family in New Orleans, Louisiana.
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From September 14-25, in honor of her residency at The Betsy Hotel and our 10th anniversary season, SWWIM Every Day will be featuring a selection of poems curated by Sarah Audsley.
Sarah Audsley is the author of Landlock X (Texas Review Press, 2023). A Korean American adoptee, a graduate of the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College, and a member of The Starlings Collective, Audsley lives and works in northern Vermont. She serves as the Writing Program Director at Vermont Studio Center.
We hope you enjoy this special collaboration!
by Genevieve DeGuzman
I cupped her living weight. A three-inch bandita
bedded across my three callouses.
Gold leaf dust, empty soda can,
even a bearing ball was heavier.
Black-capped chickadee—warm, pulsing
in my palm, prettied with pollen.
Were you taking from the feeder? Were you vibrating
drunk on abundance before I startled you
to a collision course? Once I, too, crashed hard.
Scraped a cheek, bruised my thin wrist on a pole.
How my mother’s breath forgave and gusted
on my nicked knees. I was a smaller thing then,
all hollow bones and feathers in her thermals.
Before she died, I didn’t know what violence
could be. Fists of bruised mint. Father’s fists
through the wall. Mother’s hair falling out in fistfuls.
My fist with a living bird in hand no one
will ever see. Some sparrows in the underbrush sing
only for themselves. Every day I pined for your split-
second visitations to my hand-offered seed.
But not for anything longer. Don’t stay longer than this.
I’m not meant to hold you forever, my mother said,
setting me down in pollen dust. Unfledged feet
didn’t want to touch the ground.
____________________________________________________________
Genevieve DeGuzman is the author of Karaoke at the End of the World (JackLeg Press). An Alice James Award finalist and Tin House alum, she appears in The Adroit, Lit Hub, Poetry Northwest, RHINO, Zócalo Public Square, and other journals. She has received the Oregon Literary Fellowship and StoryBoard Fellowship, as well as support from Vermont Studio Center, Poets & Writers, AWP, and Oregon Arts Commission. Born in the Philippines, she lives in Portland, OR.
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From September 14-25, in honor of her residency at The Betsy Hotel and our 10th anniversary season, SWWIM Every Day will be featuring a selection of poems curated by Sarah Audsley.
Sarah Audsley is the author of Landlock X (Texas Review Press, 2023). A Korean American adoptee, a graduate of the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College, and a member of The Starlings Collective, Audsley lives and works in northern Vermont. She serves as the Writing Program Director at Vermont Studio Center.
We hope you enjoy this special collaboration!
by Christine Kitano
The Department of [X] at [Y] University seeks a faculty member with expertise in [A] with a secondary emphasis in [B] and ability to teach [C]; and who will contribute to the department’s stated commitment to fostering diversity, equity, and inclusion.
The candidate will be hired as part of a diversity program, which means one year of probation before the possibility of tenure-track conversion. A good “trial run,” a colleague will say. “Of course we want you, but we have to make sure you want to be here too,” another will say.
The candidate will teach a standard X/X load and maintain an active research agenda.
When the candidate proposes a new course in their field, the curriculum committee will express concern about the candidate’s expertise and ability to teach said new course.
In a course evaluation, a student will write that it’s “cool that [the candidate] seemed to be learning the material along with us.”
A colleague will express disappointment that the candidate, whose field is American literature, does not speak Japanese.
The candidate will fulfill service duties at the departmental and university levels, including serving on the anti-racism committee. The candidate will be the face of the department at recruitment events.
At the anti-racism department retreat, a colleague will complain to the candidate that the avocado in her vegan sushi is brown.
A colleague will question the candidate’s ability to use commas.
A colleague will say that the candidate’s face looks like an apple; he’d love to take a bite.
Note that due to the inordinate privileges afforded by the diversity hiring program, the candidate may never ask for travel funding or course release or research leave.
The candidate must never ask for anything.
The candidate, by being a candidate, has already asked for too much.
_________________________________________________________
Christine Kitano is the author of the poetry collections Birds of Paradise (Lynx House Press) and Sky Country (BOA Editions). Dumb Luck & other poems (Texas Review Press) won the Robert Phillips Poetry Chapbook Prize. She is an associate professor at Stony Brook University where she directs the BFA in Creative Writing.
_____________________________________________________________________________
From September 14-25, in honor of her residency at The Betsy Hotel and our 10th anniversary season, SWWIM Every Day will be featuring a selection of poems curated by Sarah Audsley.
Sarah Audsley is the author of Landlock X (Texas Review Press, 2023). A Korean American adoptee, a graduate of the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College, and a member of The Starlings Collective, Audsley lives and works in northern Vermont. She serves as the Writing Program Director at Vermont Studio Center.
We hope you enjoy this special collaboration!
by Shelley Wong
From September 14-25, in honor of her residency at The Betsy Hotel and our 10th anniversary season, SWWIM Every Day will be featuring a selection of poems curated by Sarah Audsley.
Sarah Audsley is the author of Landlock X (Texas Review Press, 2023). A Korean American adoptee, a graduate of the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College, and a member of The Starlings Collective, Audsley lives and works in northern Vermont. She serves as the Writing Program Director at Vermont Studio Center.
We hope you enjoy this special collaboration!
by Susan Nguyen
After the song by the Baha Men
In gym we lope like dogs, sit back on our haunches
and howl, but already I do not feel animal.
I hate the infantilizing nature of our exercise
set to this song, how freely everyone moves
in their bodies. The room whines with their abandon
as I run on hands and knees, my mouth the wrong
pitch, carpet burn scraping my palms raw.
I mouth lyrics like I mouth prayers in CCD—
there a chorus of Vietnamese undulates loud
and sweet, the room filled with our rhapsody.
Everyone trades milky gel pens while I stab erasers
with lead, fake my Hail Marys and Our Fathers.
Thầy giáo singles me out with his stare,
and I confess
I only know it in English.
He makes me recite the Act of Contrition solo,
so I empty myself of God. The church bell of his hot
mouth, silenced. Me, glad. To know I can wield
language transforms me into something else:
sweaty fire hazard, windowless basement room.
I am a quickening blade. A ringing violence.
_________________________________________________________
Susan Nguyen is the author of Dear Diaspora (University of Nebraska Press, 2021), which won the Prairie Schooner Book Prize in Poetry, an Outstanding Achievement Award from the Association of Asian American Studies, a New Mexico-Arizona Book Award, and was a finalist for the Julie Suk Award. She is the editor in chief of Hayden’s Ferry Review and a member of the collective She Who Has No Master(s).
____________________________________________________________________________
From September 14-25, in honor of her residency at The Betsy Hotel and our 10th anniversary season, SWWIM Every Day will be featuring a selection of poems curated by Sarah Audsley.
Sarah Audsley is the author of Landlock X (Texas Review Press, 2023). A Korean American adoptee, a graduate of the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College, and a member of The Starlings Collective, Audsley lives and works in northern Vermont. She serves as the Writing Program Director at Vermont Studio Center.
We hope you enjoy this special collaboration!
by Ansley Moon
My brown girl traveled an ocean
to me. Swam in a bucket, a caught
& angry fish. Always swimming
in frantic laps. Never being good girl
for mama. But now, she is mine & I
will teach her virtue. How to never leave
your room without matching bras & panties.
How to wrap, wrap, wrap & hide blood.
How to be gracious for those that saved you
to say thank you after a beating & not cry.
By my hand, my brown girl will be worthy,
will be different. Will learn to wash
away the day’s stink & always wear lipstick.
_________________________________________________________
Ansley Moon is the author of the poetry collections, Register the Missing (Kaya Press, 2026) and How to Bury the Dead (Black Coffee Press, 2011). They are an Asian American adoptee, poet, and educator. Moon writes the "Teach this Poem" series for the Academy of American poets and is a Co-Founding member of The Starlings Collective, a BIPOC adoptee writers and artists collective.
_____________________________________________________________________________
From September 14-25, in honor of her residency at The Betsy Hotel and our 10th anniversary season, SWWIM Every Day will be featuring a selection of poems curated by Sarah Audsley.
Sarah Audsley is the author of Landlock X (Texas Review Press, 2023). A Korean American adoptee, a graduate of the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College, and a member of The Starlings Collective, Audsley lives and works in northern Vermont. She serves as the Writing Program Director at Vermont Studio Center.
We hope you enjoy this special collaboration!