Interviewed by Judy Thorn
May 1, 2026

I sat down with my friend Autumn Schade over proverbial yogurt parfaits for the first May Wall Press editorial feature. Autumn works close to where I live and I see her often.

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Do you remember being born? How did it make you feel?

I don’t actually remember being born. It is funny to me that you would think I’d be the type of person who could. My mom always says I was born saying, “hi guys, what’s up!” I think I was relieved to begin my life.

My first memories feel like sheets fresh out of the dryer. Holding my mom’s hand in the parking lot. Pointing at a flock of birds and calling it a bird parade. Learning how to read in the morning.

Imagining myself ever being so tiny, I sometimes wish I would’ve sipped dew drops from leaves or something. But of course, you don’t know you’re tiny when you’re new to the world.

Birth feels a little bittersweet to me. There is something melancholic about it. On one hand, it is important to self-actualize and feel like I’m meant to be here; on the other, I know I’m also just the result of circumstance. I exist because of a time when my mom felt manipulated, afraid, and without much control over her life. She says she would go through it all again just to have me and my two brothers, even without being ready to be a mom or having much of a choice.

Birth isn’t something we’re meant to remember so much as something we spend our lives making sense of, finding meaning for something that began before we had any say at all.

How has your writing practice been going since reading at Bloomers Poetry Club in December?

Right when I joined Bloomers, I had made a resolve to work on being less private about my art and writing. Then after attending, I made a quiet decision that if Judy ever asked me to read, I would say yes enthusiastically, regardless of my anxieties, and just go for it.

After performing, I realized I had been making this privacy about my work thing into internalized drama. Sharing is still new to me, but since that experience, I’ve been more open and have continued to put my work out there. For example, I’m now in a private creative writing workshop and am printing a zine very soon (shameless self-plug).

Think about yourself as an artist. Where are you in the timeline?

Creating has always been something I do, whether consciously or not, with or without a clear purpose. It’s hard for me to place myself on any kind of timeline. I think of myself as an artist who creates for the love of it, without much concern for discovery or recognition. This has always been true for me.

I understand why some artists feel a strong pull toward visibility and recognition, but I don’t experience that urgency. For me, that kind of pressure can feel draining. It’s more than a hobby, but I don’t want to make it my job. That’s part of why I’ve tended to keep my practice private. But, as you know, I’m working on that. So no matter what, it just makes me happy to know I am an Artist. As long as I can make things, I know I’m on the right timeline.

Out of the thousands
who are known,
or who want to be known
as poets,
maybe one or two
are genuine
and the rest are fakes,
hanging around the sacred
precincts
trying to look like the real thing.
Needless to say
I am one of the fakes,
and this is my story

“Thousands,” Leonard Cohen

If you could only keep one of the books in your collection and all the others tragically burned, which would it be?

NIV, True Images Bible: The Bible for Teen Girls. It was a gift from my mom when I was 12. She was a single mom making $8.00 an hour at Great Clips (plus tips). The Bible itself was really expensive. Years later, I tried to give it to the thrift store and she saw it in my pile and wept. I promised her I would hold onto it.

Do you think I’m pretty?

Beyond… Like many people, I was starstruck when I first met you at the Word Virus grand reopening. I told you Yoshitaka Amano could draw you very well.

Did you ever recover the amulet?

Oh, that poor little amulet!

Only in fragments.
Clutched and quiet are those pieces;
my amulet—you aren’t meant to sit in a hand,
circle my neck and lie upon my chest.

Only in fragments.
I found the glittering cast metal,
green with nickel-sickness,
costume jewelry gone dull at the joints.

Wipe the tarnish from its small forgetful face,
let it rest against my pulse like an open window.

It will be recovered soon enough.