Saturday, March 21, 2026

Aja Couchois Duncan, The Intimacy Trials

 

The first word is gesture, is origin, is Gichi-manidoo’s breath. But the beginning is also the end. There are, in every membrane, the cellular markers of death.

We who were once muskrat and owl, moose and caribou. We who are spirit and matter, anima and animus. We who have survived disaster only to find its transcription in our DNA.

Antecedents thread each layer of dermis. We are, each one of us, wrapped in their skin.

When anxious, we peel our fingers until they bleed. We lean over and gnaw the skin of another’s neck. Drumming the flood inside of us. Not beaver but raptor, all beak and wing.

The cycles of time form concentric loops. Reach out and touch the blur of particles, past and future mere inches apart.

Yesterday we walked the pocked surface of the moon. Tomorrow we will be scalded by the fires of Mars.

The earth has been stripped of all her secrets. Each morning Aki wakes, dawn, prying her legs apart. (“(treble)”)

Described in her bio as “a leadership coach and movement capacity builder of Ojibwe, French, and Scottish descent living on the ancestral and stolen lands of the Coach Miwok people,” poet Aja Couchois Duncan is the author of the newly-released The Intimacy Trials (Chicago IL: University of Chicago Press, 2026), a poetry title that follows her collections Vestigial (Brooklyn NY: Litmus Press, 2021) [see my review of such here] and Restless Continent (Litmus Press, 2016) [see my review of such here] in their articulations around what poet and critic Douglas Kearney, on the back cover of this current collection, describes as “a dynamic ecopoetics keen on Indigenous futures beyond survivance.” Set in seven sections of extended lyric fragments—“treble,” “witness,” “bass,” “quaver,” “ritual,” “pitch” and “fissure”—The Intimacy Trials begins at the beginning and expands ever outward. “The first word is gesture, is origin,” as the opening piece offers, “is Gichi-manidoo’s breath.” From there, Duncan expands and threads a storytelling lyric, weaving the past into the present, documenting history and trauma and resilience into the possitibilities of both the present, and a possible future. “We are as real as the perpetual present tense.” she writes, early in the book’s third section, “Our dreams sensorial. Cloaked in darkness, we rummage our bodies until something settles into place. An elbow or breast. The declension of a belly unfed.” Duncan is very good at blending dream and witness, a firm hand and a tale enough to hold everything it requires to seek truth.

As much as this is an assemblage of poems, of lyric sequenses, The Intimacy Trials can be seen as a long poem, or book-length lyric suite, that takes the scope and the scale, the measure, of her own perspective on contemporary Indigeneity, a present that holds far too many ripples across centuries of colonial violence. “It is the business / of treaties. Taking more than,” she writes, amid “witness,” “an agree- / ment be- / tween men.” She writes of witness and resistance; determined, with a particular timeless air. These concerns aren’t purely contemporary, after all, but hold the accumulated weight of the decades since European arrival across North America. As she writes to close the first section: “We are a precarious diaspora. There is nowhere left to go.”

Friday, March 20, 2026

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Aaron Cully Drake

Aaron Cully Drake was shortlisted for the Amazon Canada First Novel Award and longlisted for the Stephen Leacock Memorial Medal for Humour for his debut novel Do You Think This Is Strange? (Brindle & Glass, 2015). Drake is a former newspaper reporter and editor. He lives in Coquitlam, BC, with his wife and two children

1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?

It didn’t. It carried me along for a while, it was fun for a while, but life moved forward with or without it. I was surprised. I thought that the first book was supposed to mark the beginning of your new life. Turns out it was just a signpost on your real life.

2 - How did you come to fiction first, as opposed to, say, poetry or non-fiction?

Probably happenstance, although very few children come to non-fiction first.

3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?

Starting isn’t the problem. It’s always the finishing that kills me. Things come fast, the words fall all over the table, and then I spend the next year rearranging them.

4 - Where does a work of prose usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?

I like working on the idea of a book. It’s sort of reverse sculpting. I begin with the rough, unpolished form of what the story could be. It’s the sculpture of an elevator pitch. Then I write scenes, characters, and ideas on clay blobs and throw them at the sculpture to see what sticks. Eventually, after I’ve thrown enough blobs that I see the form of something else, I go to work on it. I will spend the next year rewriting it, usually by changing the tense.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?

Right before a reading, I’ll curse myself for not writing any scenes tailored for public reading. I promise myself I’ll do it next time. And here we are all over again.

6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?

I don’t know the answer until after I’ve finished the book, and someone else tells me what it was about. I’m always mildly surprised that they’re right.

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Do they even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

To finish the book and not know what it’s about. Those books are a product of that primal part of us that doesn’t speak in words but in symbols. It tends to speak greater truths than we can. The role of the writer is make the primal part heard, so that someone can point out what the book was really about.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?

It’s always nice to have two parents raising a child. The book isn’t complete until the editor finishes.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?

Always put the toilet paper in the toilet paper holder. You can’t do great things if you don’t do the mundane things first.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (journalism to fiction)? What do you see as the appeal?

I was a mediocre journalist, so I found it quite easy to transition to a mediocre writer.

11 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?

My routine is a multi-step process: I plan what I want to write in a year so I know how much I need to write in a month. Once I know that, I will know how much I need to write in a week. Each weeknight, I set my alarm to get up at 5:30 AM and to write for two hours before breakfast.

A typical day is a one-step process: sleep in.

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?

Hemingway knew the answer to this one. I like his writing.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Fresh earth turned over by a bulldozer. My father was a heavy equipment operator. The smell of pasture earth, and a sweet scent of diesel. I’m a child again, and it’s summer again, and I can run barefoot, and it doesn’t hurt.

14 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?

I think books come from disagreements with other books. The primal part of you disagrees with something the primal part of someone else said, and your story is its rebuttal. When you think of it that way, you have a duty to write the book and keep the conversation going.

That kind of dispute comes more easily between books because everything else expresses itself so clearly and vividly, unlike a story made of 80,000 words, which you have to read sequentially. With the latter, your inner self is quite engaged. With the former, it’s just wowed by the pretty colours.

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?

Stephen King had the biggest impact on my life because I read him voraciously in my childhood, when I first thought I wanted to be a writer. I’m not sure how it’s affected me because it’s so deep in the code. But I could have had worse influences. History will count him as one of the greatest writers of all time. I will fight anyone who says otherwise.

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?

Ride a motorbike across Canada. It will never happen because I know that I’ll hate it after the first day when my back starts to hurt.

17 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?

I would have been much more successful if I had not been a writer, because I would have poured that energy into my career. Writing was always a counterweight to my job. They both suffered from the other.

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?

As a child, I was a very good daydreamer. I wove great, vivid fantasies and, one day, I thought to myself, “I should write this down.” So I did, and then I read it, and I thought, “I really like reading what I’ve written.” We’ve been married ever since.

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?

Shogun by James Clavell. Every decade or so, I find myself returning to it.

The Creator, directed by Gareth Edwards. The baby AI knew all along, and she planned it that way.

20 - What are you currently working on?

A too-ambitious project. 1984ish. Where Big Brother is us. Sort of an Orwellian society regulated by upvotes and likes. A world where the rich live in the Inner City and everyone else is outside the tall black walls that keep them out. The only way into the Inner City is a fiercely competitive, unpaid internship, and our hero, Winston Smith, must find a way to get in to the In.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Thursday, March 19, 2026

imogen smith, raw & zero

 

earth towers tilling trash, how can we do what we do to air?

What’s flying up there? A balloon? A kite? A drone? Us?

Kite peers down through gloaming, sees a beach, sunlit.

Sentimentality saves no soul, but the sun deserves a break from heartache.

What can we say but it’s just that simple—

webbed ecologies of breath (“hot muck making”)

The latest from Brooklyn-based poet and performer imogen smith, following her full-length debut, stemmy things (New York NY: Nightboat Books, 2022) [see my review of such here], is raw & zero (Nightboat Books, 2026), an assemblage of confident and gestural lyrics, composed via monologues, performances and declarations, and hands waving into the air. “Tricky little venus,” begins the poem of the same name, “here’s something / you should know / —i am never / the most / liberated girl / in the room. / Sure, / i’ve slept in / all the right / beds, / floated in / streams / dreaming / life open / like a door / unto / valleyful.” Engaged with rich language and propulsive lines, there’s an element of cabaret to these pieces; over-the-top and experimental, playing with form across the canvas of both page and stage. As the poem “attn” begins: “Seated to poem / an act of devotion to the material // world. In silence i am eternal // -ly perturbed. Even the dumb / shit is sacred. Word [.]” These are poems that celebrate the body and heart of the transgender self, of the author’s transgender self, offering all with an equal acknowledgment; a kind of grace, writing the spiritual and the physical, God and assholes, in divine and equal measure.

This seems very much a book of declarations, as I suggested, although just as much a book of devotions, assembling a collage of poems and poem-shapes—from accumulating short lines, prose poems, meditative and long, languid sentences and visual gestures—into something both playfully and seriously grand, and singularly coherent. Or, as part of the lyric sequence “mutual peasure mutual” offers:

Evenings are for sex & soft drugs
a handful of paragraphs written or read
gravitational erotic flotsam between
precarity & nasal swabs        trips
to several pharmacies, markets
bookstore & boo’s, the rave in Queens
last Thursday night—all slick
w lube tongue sweat—so rare
‘s a pleasure, oft guilt in plague times.
Naked in bed, folding my sorrows
listening to Julius Eastman as cars zip
Pacific in pitch. Dream.