When we widen language, we widen understanding and we widen questions. We allow for questions that we might not necessarily allow for if things are too boxed off. I feel like it’s questions that are going to get us through.
When you’re on the flat part of [a] phase transition . . . you can’t just go blitz through it. . . . You need to give that change its proper attention, like letting the water still in a pond so you can see the leaves from underneath, their reflection.
It’s easier to stay in a place that’s known to you even if it’s hurting you. So there’s a question of loyalty, whether to your country or your family, that is complicated by being a colony.
The ghazal is a cumulative form that builds on established metaphors in a non-linear fashion. . . . I see tremendous liberatory potential in its cumulativeness. . . . When writing a ghazal, my poetic voice is not just my own, just like my pain is not just my own.
That sense of the un-holdable world-horrors and calls to action alongside pictures of scarves that my friends knitted and soup that they made and thirst traps and flowers and trees and cats, the sort of simultaneity and unprocessability . . . vibrating in your pocket, definitely fed METABOLICS.
I felt an urgent need to write with more-than-human animals in ways that felt celebratory. We can’t erase the eco-grief that is now a part of our daily living, but meditating on the ways we’re carrying other species around in our very bodies was frequently joyful.
I’d like to think of the book itself as an act of prayer—a way of spreading the net of my attention, of turning people’s gaze towards the things that matter to me, that I think need more attention than they’re getting.