Published March 18, 2021

As part of the 2021 Virginia Festival of the Book, poets Erika Meitner (Holy Moly Carry Me), Kiki Petrosino (White Blood: A Lyric of Virginia), and Brian Teare (Doomstead Days) read from and discussed their newest collections, highly-acclaimed poetry that speaks to contemporary life, working through history, genealogical roots, environmental crises, loss, and more, finding ways to understand and live and breathe.

Last year, these poets were selected to have letterpress broadsides made of their work at the Virginia Center for the Book, to be included in an exhibition set called Voice-Overs—work that confronts racism, sexism, and bias in our experienced environments. The full set of Voice-Overs broadsides will be displayed in venues throughout Virginia when possible. As the poets read these poems in this event, you’ll be able to see the broadsides onscreen. Artwork for these broadsides was created by Kevin McFadden, Laura Pharis, and Michael Powers.

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Watch this event (transcript provided below):

Thanks to our bookseller for this event, UVA Bookstore.

“[Holy Moly Carry Me] is a book that really is dealing with raising kids in difficult environments and also kind of facing down the epidemic of gun violence in this country―which makes it sound like it might be kind of a depressing book. But what really impressed me about it is how beautiful and tender it is. It’s really just a live wire. She’s a Jew in Appalachia raising an African-American adopted son. She is and isn’t at home. She’s kind of meditating on these things but she does so in this very incantatory, almost prayer-like way.” ―Tess Taylor, NPR Books

“How do we live among the wreckage of what’s been spilled? Syllables hum with the felt sense of the poet, whose sweat wets the notebook as he walks. Teare has composed lyrics as formally meticulous and sonically aware as they are expansive, pleasurable, and unforgettable.” ―Oliver Baez Bendorf, Kenyon Review

“Fueled by what it means to identify your own blood, White Blood is a masterful book of poems that excavates, resurrects, and stares clear-eyed into history. Petrosino’s intricate attention to sound and the muscularity of the poetic line make these poems explode in both the ear and the heart. Here is a poet at her best.” ―Ada Limón, author of The Carrying and Bright Dead Things

Community Partner

Thanks to the Creative Writing Program at UVA for their help in sharing this event.


JANE KULOW:  Hello. Welcome to Filled With Possibility: Poetry, a program in the all-virtual 2021 Virginia Festival of the Book. I’m Jane Kulow, director of the Virginia Center for the Book, a program of Virginia Humanities. Thanks for joining us. If you haven’t read today’s books, we hope you will. For details about how to buy them from our local book seller, UVA Bookstore, please visit where you can also explore our full schedule and watch past events. While you’re there please consider making a donation to support the Festival’s ongoing work at 

Now I’m pleased to introduce our speakers. Erika Meitner, author of five collections of poems, is a professor of English at Virginia Tech. Her most recent collection, Holy Moly Carry Me was the winner of the 2018 National Jewish Book Award and a finalist for the Library of Virginia Award and the National Book Critic Circle Award in Poetry. 

Kiki Petrosino is the author of White Blood, a Lyric of Virginia, recently awarded the 2021 Realca prize and three other books of poetry. Her awards include a Pushcart prize and a Fellowship in literature from the National Endowment for the Arts. She is a professor of poetry at UVA.

Brian Teare is the author of six critically acclaimed books, most recently Doomstead Days, winner of the Four Quartets Prize and a finalist for the National Book Critic Circle, Kingsley Test and Literary awards. A 2020 Guggenheim fellow, he’s an associate professor of poetry at UVA. 

And our moderator, Kevin McFadden, is the author of the poetry collection Hardscrabble and the chapbook, City of Dante, a collaboration with illustrator Jeff Pike. He is a letterpress printer and chief operating officer at Virginia Humanities. 

Last year these poets were selected to have letterpress broadsides made of their work that are included in an exhibition set called Voice-Overs, work that confronts racism, sexism and bias in our experienced environments. The full set of Voice-Overs broadsides will be displayed in venues throughout Virginia when possible. As they read these particular poems, we’ll also display the broadsides. 

Welcome everyone and Erika, we’ll begin with you.

ERIKA MEITNER:  Thank you, Jane and thank you, Kevin. I’m so excited to be here reading with Kiki and Brian and to be reading for Virginia Festival of the Book. I’m going to read some poems from my book, Holy Moly Carry Me. This is a book about raising one white son and one black son in the 21st century Appalachian south. I live in Blacksburg, Virginia, and I wrote this poem right before the 2016 election. 

Jackhammering Limestone

You ask about the leaves and I tell you it’s been so dry here 

the leaves are just giving up, turning brown, falling off the trees, 

which all look dead. This might be a metaphor for the election or 

might be a metaphor for nothing—it’s hard to say. Each morning 

I wake up to machines across the street jackhammering limestone, 

shearing away more rock-face and turning it to rubble strewn across

red clay soil so dry it heaves and cracks. It’s been seven weeks of 

drilling and blasting, drilling and blasting, and that’s not a metaphor 

for anything either except maybe my mid-life crisis, which I’m having 

surely as there’s whiskey next to me and I’m up all night wondering 

if I can be hairless again in some risqué places. Most days I refuse 

to believe we’re doomed, despite growing evidence to the contrary.  

I mean, it’s like the 1970s down there. Trust me. Most days, I listen 

to NPR on my car radio and talk to one son or the other in the back seat 

and ask them questions they sometimes answer as we drive home 

past the pile of rubble and the leafless trees, which vaguely resemble

the girl I saw on campus wearing an entire shaggy outfit made from 

flesh-colored plastic grocery bags campaigning on an environmental 

platform for student council president. Her amazing bag-suit was rustling 

in the breeze and it looked like she might take flight, just soar over campus 

with the drones delivering burritos this week as a test stunt because 

our motto here is Invent the Future, which I think about a lot—not as 

‘your future’ in the sense of what I wanted to be when I grew up, 

which I figured out by process of elimination was not a banker or a 

computer programmer, and I never saw myself as a mother either but 

here I am. More like I would invent a future where my black son will not 

get shot by police for playing in a park, or driving, or walking from his 

broken-down car. I would invent a future where there was always 

enough chalk to leave notes for the next class: We are starting a revolution 

somehow; instructions to follow. What no one told me about programming

computers for Merrill Lynch to keep their front-end trading systems 

running past Y2K was that I was simply a dominatrix of code; the disaster 

that would take our building down came later, and had nothing to do 

with language. My cashier at Kroger has an epigraph on her name badge 

under “Paula” that says, “I Will Make Things Right.” I hope that girl 

wins her election. I hope that someday someone else will enter my 

hairless palace and find it marvelous. The photos of broken glass; the piles 

of rubble. The future is throttling towards us and it’s loud and reckless.

My next poem is actually a basketball poem and it is about the time the Cleveland Cavaliers won the 2016 NBA championships. It begins at an artist colony and I think the only thing you need to know here is that the older Pulitzer prize winning poet, Steven Dunn, has a cameo in my poem. 

Too strong

is what the announcer dubs Steph Curry’s

flubbed shot that bounces diagonally 

off the backboard. This is game seven

of the NBA finals, and Cleveland goes on

to defeat the Golden State Warriors,

but we don’t know this yet, because

we’re still watching the game, jammed 

into an alcove where it’s live-streaming 

from someone’s laptop onto a wall at an 

artists’ colony, since a surprising number 

of writers and composers and painters

are basketball fans, so when the sports-

caster reels out descriptions of plays, 

Nate the jazz critic says, “Someone should 

write a poem called Too strong,” and

Stephen Dunn isn’t interested though 

he’s sitting behind me also rooting for 

the Cavs, saying things like my goodness 

and he’s the best closer for his size

“You have to give the context in your poem,” 

mansplains Nate, who points out that 

 ‘too strong’ is a hyper-masculine way 

of saying Curry basically just fucked up 

the shot. It’s important to note here that 

Cleveland hasn’t won a championship 

in any sport since 1964—that’s a 52-year 

curse in case you’re anti-math. I am well-

versed in the sadness of Cleveland—

skies hanging like lead most of the year, 

husks of buildings, smokestacks pumping 

raw flame over downtown. My husband 

grew up in the sadness of Cleveland, 

and we return there every Christmas to more 

unemployment, more foreclosure, more 

poverty, more shitty weather. When LeBron

left Northeast Ohio, my husband actually

burned his replica jersey in the yard, wouldn’t 

mention his name for three long years of anger

and mourning. He uses Cleveland sports teams

to teach our sons about failure and perseverance, 

with a heavy emphasis on the failure. But 

here’s LeBron on screen, lugging his city’s 

championship dreams like a bag of rocks.  

Forget Tamir Rice, age twelve, gunned down

by police for being black, for playing with 

a toy gun in a park, left to bleed out on a 

sidewalk. Forget that Cleveland is the 

poorest city in America other than Detroit.

LeBron’s stuffed this game with thunderous 

dunks, fadeaway jumpers, and blocked shots, 

towing his teammates along in his ferocious 

wake. And when LeBron goes down in the final 

minute of the game, writhes on the court 

in pain after landing on his wrist we all 

want him to get up—even the artists rooting 

for Golden State. Get up, LeBron! Nothing 

comes easy to Cleveland. The next morning’s

paper sports a photo of LeBron embracing 

power forward Kevin Love, next to headlines 

about Venezuelan food riots, triple-digit

temperatures in the West, vigils for

victims of the Orlando massacre, and

the Colorado woman who fought off

a mountain lion attacking her five-year-old

son—literally reached into the animal’s

mouth and wrested his head from its jaws.

Too strong. In the belly of fear and rust

and shame there is no such thing.  

To pry open something with your bare 

hands, look into the gaping maw 

of the beast that eats your sons—

the lion, the bullets, the streets, racist

cops, heroin, despair, whatever is most

predatory and say, Enough—we will triumph, 

motherfuckers. At the game’s end, LeBron

and the Cavs coach Tyronn Lue sobbed

without shame. “I’ve always been tough

and never cried,” Lue said. And LeBron

at the post-game mic, wearing a cut-down

net like a necklace says, “I came back to bring 

a championship to our city. To a place 

we’ve never been. We’ve got to get back

to Cleveland. We’re going home.”

I’m going to read a new poem that’s one of the poems I wrote this summer during the pandemic. And I think the only thing you need to know is that Helene Cixous, who’s a French writer and philosopher, makes a cameo in here and this takes place on the beach.

Assembled Audience

This morning on the beach there’s a small nurse shark, 

whiskered & flipped on the sand & right past its shined 

white underbelly, a man—dissipated, ponytailed, leathery—

filming his younger blonde girlfriend with his phone. 

She’s wearing a tiny print bikini—the kind that’s nearly 

a thong, cheeky—& is literally shaking her ass. When she 

stops he says, Did we get it? & she must have nodded 

no, because he says, Aw fuck, let’s do it again. I know 

what I gotta do. Helene Cixous said to be human we need 

to experience the end of the world & do you agreewith her 

right now in this particular moment? There’s a tropical storm 

throttling towards us, & everyone is out on the sand before 

the cone of uncertainty sidles its way up the Eastern seaboard—

even a bridal party in blush-colored gowns. Even a family reunion 

in matched t-shirts. So many things remain uncertain. I keep 

thinking of what my friend Emily, who chained herself to a 

bulldozer to protest the Mountain Valley Pipeline, told me: 

pipeline fighters never ask how are you? They simply say, 

it’s good to see you. It’s good to see you, random strangers 

on the beach. I’ve been in my house for months. You, under 

your striped umbrellas. You smoking weed in the surf. 

You fishing from the shore. You, head down, searching 

for washed up shark teeth in the shell hash. Your radios & 

coolers & sun hats. I know what I gotta do. Buy bottled water. 

Safeguard the soul’s passage. Check the flashlight batteries. 

Map a topography of displacement & exile. Remain untouched—

the hollow space of the body—the nothing of my mouth 

covered by a mask. Cixous also said my body knows unheard of 

songs. Laments. To use a gesture to communicate something. 

The same crowd never gathers twice. A dead fish can symbolize 

an uneasiness in your body. Someone who is unresponsive. 

A portent of bad things to come. It can mean you’re next 

on the hit list. An occupation of loss. 

And my final poem is one that I’m really excited is included in the Voice-Overs broadside project. And the title of this poem comes from Native American visual artist Sky Hopinka. 

I’ll Remember You as You Were, Not as What You’ll Become

If you are fearful, America, 

I can tell you I am too. I worry 

about my body—the way, lately, 

it marches itself over curbs and 

barriers, lingers in the streets

as a form of resistance. 

The streets belong to no one 

and everyone and are a guide 

for motion, but we are so numerous 

there is no pavement left on which to 

release our bodies, like a river spilling 

over a dam, so instead my body 

thrums next to yours in place. 

When we stop traffic or hold 

hands to form a human chain, 

we become a neon OPEN sign 

singing into the night miles from 

home when the only home left 

is memory, your body, my body, 

our scars, the dark punctuated 

with the dying light of stars.

Thank you. 

KEVIN MCFADDEN:  Thank you, Erika. Very powerful reading. Next up we’ll have Kiki.

KIKI PETROSINO:  Hi everyone. Thank you so much to the Virginia Festival of the Book. Thank you, Kevin and Jane for all of those intros. It’s an honor to be here and to share poems. 

I am going to start by reading the poem that is part of the Voice-Over broadside series. This poem is called “Essay in Architecture” and it comes from my book, White Blood, a Lyric of Virginia. The title, Essay in Architecture, comes from Thomas Jefferson’s own writings in which he described his home at Monticello as his essay in architecture. 

Essay in Architecture

The human face, its pine doors painted

like mahogany. Human face with horses

under each veranda. Perfect parquet tetragons

of the human face. Human face still legible

in Old French. Sealed closet of the human face

lit by oculus. Design face, tinker face, factory

face. Twine & bare wood comprising a pulley system

for the human face. Woodworked face with sunbeams

settling in. Revolving buffet supporting the human

face. Entire pewter plate collection in face. Human

face as soup tureen, as paint chip, as spit jack. Smoke rings

textured like the human face. Human face, cured. Human

face, pickled. Human face brushed with olive oil, anchovies

& Parmesan. Green floor of the Dome Room just above

the human face. Floating view of the face, its quarter farms.

Rough cabins dotting a sloped face partly visible. Human

face built to resemble a Great Clock. Great pendulum

drawing faces in the air. 

The next poem is called “Terrorem” and it’s also about thinking about Monticello. 


Every night I go back to Mr. Jefferson’s place, searching still

his kitchens, behind staircases, in a patch of shade somewhere

beside his joinery & within his small ice house, till I get down

that pit, lined with straw, where Mr. Jefferson once stacked frozen slabs

of river water until summer. Then, visitors would come to him

to ask about a peculiar green star, or help him open up

his maps. They’d kneel together on the floor, among his books

lavish hunks of ice melting like the preserved tears

of some antique mammal who must have wept

to leave Albemarle, just as I wept when I landed in Milan

for the first time, stone city where Mr. Jefferson began

to learn the science of ice houses, how you dig into the dark

flank of the land, how you seal the cavity. Leave open

just one small hatch through which I might lift, through gratings

Mr. Jefferson’s cold dressed victuals, his expensive butter & salads

the sealed jars sweating clear gems of condensation, white blood

appearing from warm air, as if air could break & slough, revealing

the curved arc of our shared Milan. There, I wore silver rings

on each thumb. I studied & spoke in fine houses

of ice. I knew a kind of crying which sealed me to such realms

for good. Old magic weep, old throb-in-throat. How much

of my fondness for any place is water, stilled & bound

to darkness?

The next section that I’ll read from is from the county right next door to Albemarle County. You know, Albemarle County is where Charlottesville is, that’s where Monticello is, that’s where I’m broadcasting from. But we’re going to move next door to Louisa County, another county in central Virginia where my ancestors were part of the free and enslaved communities. 

In Louisa

You wake up because

you hear someone singing

little lamb, little lamb

as if the singer were calling

from across a great

distance. You know, as you’ve always

known, that you’re the little lamb

in this song, just as you know

that no matter how far

you may wander from the loop

of sand where you were born

the singer of this particular song

will always sing little lamb meaning you,

quite distinctly. As you

slowly climb from the covers

you try to tell the song to stop

that noise, please but what comes out is 

play it again, which you hadn’t meant

to say, at all. Soon, the song starts up

once more, spinning the long journey

of itself. It speaks of coiling into thickets

of sharp weeds, of slanting across hills.

The song even describes you

in some time before remembrance.

You wore a suit of woven water

& learned to speak in rippling syllables. 

You, or someone like you. 

Message from the Free Smiths of

Louisa County

You want to know who owned us & where. 

But when you type, your searches returned no results. 

Bondage was grown folks’ business, then old folks’. 

We saw no reason to hum Old Master’s name

to our grandchildren, or point out his overgrown gates

but you want to know who owned us & where

we got free. You keep typing our names into oblongs

of digital white. You plant a unicode tree & climb up

into grown folks’ business. You know old folks

don’t want you rummaging here, so you pile sweet jam

in your prettiest dish. You light candles & pray:

Tell me who owned you & where

I might find your graves. Little child, we’re at rest

in the acres we purchased. Those days of 

bondage were old folks’ business. The grown folks

buried us deep. Only a few of our names survive.

We left you this: sudden glints in the grass. 

The rest is grown folks’ business we say. Yet

you keep asking who owned us. 

Louisa County Patrol Claims, 1770–1863

I pry open the files, still packed

with liquor & strange brine.

Midnight seeps from the cracks

slow pulp of arithmetic. Four or five

or six at a time, the white men draw

along the Gordonsville Road on foot

or on horseback, clustered close—

each man counting up his hours, the knife

of each man’s tongue at the hinge

of his own mouth. For ninety-three years

& every time I slip away to read

those white men line the roadway

secreting themselves in the night air

feeding & breathing in their private

column. Why belly up to their pay stubs

scraping my teeth on the chipped flat

of each page? This dim drink only blights me

but I do it. 

Two more poems. This one is also from the Louisa County section of White Blood and it’s based on a letter that I found preserved in the National Archive. 

Mrs. A.T. Goodwin’s Letter to the 

Provost Marshal, 1866

You ask why I raised my hand to that boy, why

I gave him some raps over the head, you ask

why I took my small riding whip to his shoulders

his head, why, you ask, when he would not cut logs

at the woodpile. You ask why I took him by the hand &

gave him some raps, when not one stick did he cut from twelve

to four. I told his mother, my milker washer, I told her

in plain words he must do better. I told her all this without

any improvement. She was insolent, which is why my son

struck her. He only struck her when she ran from her cabin

to pluck up the boy while I was giving him some raps

over the head & shoulders with just my small riding

whip. Understand, Sir, this boy had not cut more than

two scant handfuls of wood for my cookstove, but all

the family were engaged to me: his mother, the boy

to bring my horses to water, to cut wood, only yesterday

he said I shall not cut a stick of wood. I shall not touch it. So these

are the negroes we’ve raised, never abused a single one, always

had the kindest feelings, the kindest, so long as their conduct

were tolerable, so long as I did not have to stand

by my woodpile, smelling the woodpile, the smell of the sap

intolerable from twelve to four, the heave & snap of the clear

sap inside the logs, never holding still, so that I had rather stand

in the house, my hands sifting flour across a board, so that

in truth I had much rather be still, holding nothing

but my riding whip, dark & folded up small.

The last poem is a poem that I wrote the Fall before I left Kentucky where I was living before I came here to Charlottesville. And it was a poem I wrote for the city of Louisville after an incident of racially motivated violence in the city. A white supremacist opened fire inside a Kroger grocery store and two elder African Americans were killed in that incident.


Dear Lord, Dear High Remembrancer

Dear Providential Love—have mercy. 

Have mercy, thou Surveyor of Wildflowers, Assessor of Royal

& Exquisite Bee-Realms. Have mercy, Ledger

Who Tracks Us in the Night, Who Measures without Speaking

Our Dark Trespasses. For nothing here survives—

not the gold-legged deer, browsing the bleached office park at dawn

nor the minute finch on her branch of long division—

but thou, thou, thou absorb it, all. O, Gazer, be kind in thy absorbing

calculus. Won’t be long before thy reckoning curve

arrives at the junction of our error. How, beneath thy Mineral Eye

we walk abroad, forgetting thee, Cartographer of Sparrows.

KEVIN MCFADDEN:  Thank you, Kiki. One drawback of Zoom in a reading is you can’t hear the “hmmm” that so often is part of us when we’re reading together. So thank you, Kiki and Erika for those moments and more ahead. Brian?

BRIAN TEARE:  Thank you, Kevin. It’s such an honor to be here with Kiki and Erika and I just want to thank you and Jane and everyone at Virginia Festival for the Book for making a gathering possible during this time when we can’t really gather. I mean some of us, unfortunately, have gathered and will continue to in Texas, apparently. But since most of us are being sensible I appreciate this gathering. 

I’m going to read four poems and the first three are from a book that came out in 2013 called Companion Grasses and these three poems are a part of a sonnet sequence called “Transcendental Grammar Crown.” I’m actually going to read them backwards so, against the crown form. And a lot of my work is really interested in our human capacity for reflexive thought and obstruction and how those things result in a kind of idealism that fails us when it meets material and social reality. In all sorts of ways it fails. But also a real pleasure in the material, despite the way our thinking often fails when it hits material reality. 

These three poems are written in proximity to a field that I really loved. This is called “Otherwise Grasses Parable.” 


(Grasses Parable)

—to have been built bent  

to bear witness     to have 

been thin-stemmed     spined 

like a mind     to have said    

—it’s true      we saw the grasses       turned snake

flesh      fall crept cribs of cryptic ribs       we wished

it was a dream      but the fields      went weird & left

—was it a dream       at forest’s edge      we watched

dark arc over the fields       how trees begin to lean

at that hour over     their own shadows     & the voice

called the grasses      back

by name       —timothy 

bent     orchard      hair

poverty     sweet vernal      come

Fail better. 


—solstice brings the field 

to its knees      yarrow

flax     vetch     heavy 

estival air a gall of pollen

— & aren’t you novice     again in lit      Euclidean gilt      

shadows to true       each natural fact     toward more

radical matter     :     a robe of rhetoric     auric eulalia     

—to angle praise      fodder the color of how you felt

as a child     pure Bible-light     ochre smoke & ivory

vellum pages      cut stems      sweet       —taller now 

than grass     you can’t      

but muster      nothing      

longing a rope you’d use     

to haul it all     other-wise    

And then this is the poem that’s the broadside, “Of Feeling.” 

Of Feeling


—no monument    no moment    no human

Passion    just spider’s fiber    cantilevered

Thing    hedged     best guess    a net

to register    the transparency    identity

becomes    its minimal matter    fragile

—and then what    plaint & wait    as if

your whole life    a pattern of spectacular

aptitude    for disappointment    your

intelligence    a broken wing    a bird

feigns    to distract the hunt    from kill

—it’s useless    to reduce gesture    further dear

Form    :    are you reason    are you even feeling    :    fail better 

And then this last poem is an attempt to fail better as opposed to feel better. It is called “Olivine, Quartz, Granite, Cornelian” and it takes place in Johnson, Vermont in the hills above that town.

Olivine, Quartz, Granite, Cornelian

(Johnson, VT)

On foot under thunder 

heading in from the west, 

I wasn’t thinking rain 

but now I’m thinking rain  

on Plot Road while I watch 

Foote Brook do its thaw thing  : 

ropy cold clear water 

pulls itself downhill fast, 

its spatter lathering 

granite banks with foam. Up- 

hill, up the road, a field 

mown gold. Its curve is cut 

by horizon, a veil 

of rain drawn across it 

slowly so it darkens 

in increments. I left

the house without poncho 

or umbrella. I’m cold. 

The good news is : the way 

Archimedes wanted 

a place to stand to lift 

the world, & Descartes sought 

one thought as certain as 

the point a lever turns 

into a fulcrum, this 

dirt road is a fine place

to get totally soaked 

in the poem. The bad 

news is : el niño. It’s 

a bummer to go all 

cogito here after 

the hottest winter in 

the hottest year so far 

on record, all the thaw 

finished by the first week 

of March. Yet I can feel 

the color the poem 

gathers inside me, brown 

silver interior 

of a dried milkweed pod, 

everything outside it 

on a spectrum of wet

& getting wetter as

the front moves overhead. 

A little mist sizzles 

high in the canopy, 

its sound in the middle 

distance of the sonic 

landscape between Foote Brook 

& thunder, a distance 

rusty blackbirds also 

fill from the oak they have

flocked to, so raucously 

dominating its crown.

When the rain hits, they fall 

silent. Then there’s nothing 

in the hush but thunder 

& water on water 

& water hitting wood. 

Above : the sky a kind 

of crushed lilac. Around 

me : Clay Hill an issue 

of trickles gathering 

gravity gathering 

mass heading south downhill 

to the river. Little 

streams even in the mud

under my feet, I want 

to say I feel the pull

on all my vertebrae, 

occiput to sacrum,  

the water in my bones

longing to join the thaw. 

& thought alluvial 

too, the way valleys fill 

slowly with gravel sent

down by the surrounding 

mountains : olivine, quartz, 

granite, carnelian, 

each stone an idea 

washed then carried by rain. 

Down Foote Brook’s leaf-slick steep

bank I slide the way walk

& watchbegin in rhyme 

then fail the way those same

activities fit in-

side each other until 

they don’t : I slip, hit rock, 

my body stops, the walk 

stalls, & I sit, my mind 

rising toward quiet

as the brook goes by, south

by southwest. I watch, let

the current take over.  

Over its rocky bed 

the water runs clear, leaves 

the distortions made by 

its torsion flickering 

the way musculature 

moves its skin, all flexure 

& shadow. Do not move

the x-ray tech told me, 

so I stood & did what 

I’m doing now : I watched

living turn to image, 

a bruised sort of bluish

fluid on a white screen 

the rheumatologist 

lit up. You might have years

of mobility left 

if you’re careful, he said.

I could’ve looked like that

for hours at my spine,  

the molecules locked in 

degrading matrices : 

where the joints meet up, spurs

curve small bone hooks honed to 

catch on flesh the x-rays  

see through, causing the doc

to write in his report, 

soft tissues unremark-

able.It’s weird to be 

always incurring off- 

screen injuries I have

to live with. The process 

makes a space in my thought

like I make a space on 

the brook’s hard bank : anthro-

pogenic nonpoint source 

pollutant, my urine 

a potent effluent

of medicines I need

& pesticides I don’t, 

a pharmacopeia 

of harm for riverine

species. I close my eyes. 

Rain on leaflitter sounds 

like storm wind high above

& the brook thrown downhill

by its own force, the world

coalescing briefly 

in an unending rhyme 

with itself, consonant

& comforting. I know

it’s cogito that makes 

it seem my ears make it 

so. I open my eyes. 

I get up & go east, 

back up Plot Road, muddy 

now with runoff. Off-road 

landscape ranges from field 

to forest to dwelling 

& back, the visual 

rhythm of settlement 

& regrowth, clearcutting 

& aftermath, my eye 

always drawn to eco-

tone, richly liminal

& ugly where forest

meets field grown over stumps. 

I love what yields green there

then dries in thickets : bull 

thistle, milkweed, seedheads 

in hundreds that luster 

against the denser screen 

of trees. I love how birds 

the size of sparrows hunt

in the scrub, break cover 

to duck between thin trunks – 

the black-capped chickadee 

loosing its slow two-note 

sing-song sing-song only 

after it lands a branch. 

Some things must be listened 

into appearances :

the thistles for instance

rustle, sigh into sight,

vatic static in wave

patterns that predict wind

that hits my face; the rain

insinuates itself

slowly into puddles

of an abalone  

silver, iridescent

as a rock pigeon’s neck; 

& the poem starts first 

as a color I hear, 

its stiff dry stalks shaking 

gray & brown. It’s almost

pornographic, detail

the world offers, texture  

whose totality is

far beyond adequate 

capture, & excites me

anyway, as endless 

as the filaments of 

beard lichen the same soft

bright green of olivine. 

So I watch; I walk on;

I fill my pockets full 

of milkweed pods, a few 

still stuffed with floss; I watch 

as if I could forget 

the harm that happens where 

the world’s flesh meets my flesh;

I walk as if I could 

undo the human self 

I’ve become & remain 

through undoing done to 

others. Between walking

& watchingthe whole world 

slips, goes missing, my mind 

empty as the chambers 

of a gun whose bullets 

have hit the intended 

targets, residual 

heat & soft black powder 

all that cogito leaves 

behind. I never meant 

to fire. It’s not my voice 

that cries out bulls-eye! but 

I find my mouth moves too

without thinking as each 

species goes down. & then 

I do nothing but think, 

for instance, of a cave

in upstate New York : there

a fungus introduced

from Europe infected

bats whose skin spread through touch

a syndrome inducing

the inability

to hibernate. Awake, 

sick bats use up winter 

fat stores & starve, thinned wings

torn, riddled with lesions.

As hibernacula

emptied in the east, spores 

moved mortality cross- 

country to thirty three 

states in the mere decade 

since the fungus first jumped

the Atlantic on some

spelunker’s boots, perhaps,

or on infected gear –  

extinction follows us

whether we mean it to  

or not. We arethe point

the lever turns into 

a fulcrum : by wounding  

the world we lift ourselves

up. So I walk the way 


I’m possessed by some god – 

I don’t know how to know

what I know except to 

put it on foot, gesture 

as outwardly useless

as boots in a downpour 

on a scale this total. 

Just before Plot Road meets 

Clay Hill, an abandoned 

barn leans over a stream 

that cuts under its right 

back corner, its skewed floor 

strewn still with tools & hay. 

A few license plates hang  

on its aged gray façade. 

I like the look of it 

the way I like the sound

of the passing cars harped

on Clay Hill by frost heaves 

that rattle their chassis :

laughable enchantment, 

the sort of ruin 

that seems livable 

until it isn’t.

Thank you. 

KEVIN MCFADDEN:  And thank you, Brian. Great reading. And now I think, I hope we will have a great discussion, so I’ll invite everyone to come back re video and we’ll gather here, take a breath. I was struck in these poems at how time bends and morphs and how you each orient us to time. Erika, in the game that you’re describing, it already happened but you’re moving in and out through a larger context. And Kiki, obviously the context of Virginia’s history with inequality and violence on race permeates the poems. And Brian, coggy toe, you’re calling it, I’m hearing in that this thinking mind, this self that abstracts as you started with in those poems that you read from Companion Grasses. So I’m just curious to hear a little bit more from each of you, if you wouldn’t mind exploring that aspect of time, trans historical or how it moves and speeds up and slows down for you and what kind of responsibilities, maybe, you feel as a director of that flow of time. Any part of that you want to grab. 

Kiki, will you start?

KIKI PETROSINO:  Yeah, I can grab onto that very astute observation, Kevin. And I think that my relationship to time in the poems that I read for today goes all the way back to how I think that lyric poetry operates in general, which is, I believe that the lyric poem is … It preserves the movement of mind of the poet across the subject matter. So the poems that I find most interesting to read and the poems that I aspire to write are not poems that already know what they think or already know what they’re going to say about the subject matter, but rather poems that use the space of the poem to think through a problem. And in that way we may approach poetry with the same urgency that we may approach philosophy or divinity or any other area of humanistic inquiry. Poetry is a place to think about problems. And in so doing, time passes and the poem then, the completed poem, is the artifact or the trace of the time that the poet spent thinking through those complexities.

So when you are talking about history, there’s historical time which has already passed, but that time becomes more kinetic in the space of the poem because my thought about that problem takes time, exists in real time. And so the poem is a place where you may time travel, you know? And then the reader reading the poem gets to travel along with the poet as well.

ERIKA MEITNER:  Can I add two things to Kiki’s thoughts because that was so beautifully said. I work in narrative more often than lyric and I think one of the really fascinating things to me that kind of blew my mind in writing “Too Strong” was my partner would sit and watch the recording of the Cavs game after they had won and still be so nervous because he had been so traumatized as a Cleveland sports fan, that they would lose. Even though he had already seen that particular narrative happen, that I think narrative can create that same space in some way. And I use the term trauma loosely here for that experience, but I think it’s that old saying by, I think, Einstein of repeating the same action and expecting a different outcome. One thing narratives can do, particularly if they’re jammed up against each other in new ways, is create a new outcome, is create a new story. And while it doesn’t necessarily move time forward, it gives us new meanings for past, present and future, in, I think, a similar way to lyric, or can. 

I think the really other interesting thing to me is that we’re always experiencing past, present and future, in some ways, simultaneously. Our brains are always moving and living in those moments in really simultaneous ways. When I walk down a street in New York City that I walked down as a child, even if different stores are on both sides of me, I’m experiencing the street in the moment. I’m experiencing the sense memories from when I was a kid, and I’m also often thinking about what’s going to happen next. And so I think those aren’t things that are separate to me, and poetry allows me to experience that clash or that melange of past, present and future all at once. 

BRIAN TEARE:  And I love both of those answers and I wanted to add something which is, when I started working on Companion Grasses and really thinking about a history of environmental writing and what it might mean to join that history or be in dialogue with that history, I read a really wonderful book by the writer Rebecca Solnit called Savage Dreams, which is this history, it’s multiple histories of the West in part, like nuclear testing in Nevada and then also water in northern California and Yosemite. But one of the things that, this idea that’s pretty simple but I think was really helpful to me, was that we never look at landscape with fresh eyes. Because landscape is already a cultural idea. It’s already sort of a kind of palimpsest of quotations and inheritances. And that we cannot look at anything, actually, but the natural world, other bodies, there are always this kind of melange of received ideas. 

And so one of the things that is important to me in my own writing, thinking about the past inhabiting the present, is bringing forward some of the ways in which some of those thinkers or some of those ideas that shape our perception and experience of the present tense. Because those also determine how the future, as we know now from the environmental crisis, the global environmental crisis, we know that that actually will shape our future. We know that also in terms of racial justice, in terms of gender justice. These ideas from the past actually have determined both our own healthcare, our own safety in the present way public spaces are experienced and will continue to do so unless we examine those ideas and change the way they shape our material realities. 

And so I do see that work of bringing forward and examining our inherited ideas and making ourselves responsible for them and how they get deployed both in our own work but also in social space. And a crucial thing that, an otherwise rarefied habit of quotation that we inhabit from modernism, let’s say, it can actually be utilized differently now, I think in ways that are much more critically reflective and justice-oriented, for lack of a better word. So I think of that as, I think sometimes of quotation as, this portal both into the past and into the future. 

KEVIN MCFADDEN:  That’s great. And maybe even building on that in a sense, across the books, as I was reading these poems, presences that really are asking for a poem to be written. Either quite literally or that is the feeling of presence that the poet’s encountering is feeling and experiencing and it is pushing. So could each of you speak to that a little bit? Have you felt those times and how does it feel when you are called? You are asked to write? 

BRIAN TEARE:  Kiki, do you want to begin again?

KIKI PETROSINO:  If I think I understand you right, it’s about subject matter. Like what do we feel called to write about and when do we feel called to write about those things? With regard to my latest book which is all about, well it begins with my own connections to Virginia. I had never really written in a formalized way about the time I spent at the University of Virginia as an undergraduate. It was an intense time and a wonderful time of learning. It was also a time that was full of change for me. My parents separated and then divorced during the time that I was an undergraduate. And my grandfather took his own life during the time that I was an undergraduate. So in writing about my experience of Virginia, all these other things came up that had been a part of my experience for twenty years but that I had never told anyone, really, in words or expressed through my poetry. 

And when I think about the book and how it grew, I think that it’s a book that I could only write now after having lived those twenty years and having gone back into time to recollect what it was like to be a student here. In doing that, I also needed to engage with ancestral connections to Virginia that I always knew about but that, as a young person, I didn’t explore fully and didn’t have a catalyst to explore fully until my grandmother, who was from Virginia, until she passed away in 2015. At that point I realized that if I wanted to know more about my grandmother than what she had told me herself, that I would have to research it, and I would have to find out what the connections were and the depth of those connections. 

So those paths of inquiry entwine themselves and began to feel like a calling. Began to feel like work that I needed to do, that needed to be combined into one project. And I don’t think I would’ve been ready before now to have engaged those questions. So I think that things might always be inside you that could be potential subjects for poems, but there are some poems that you need to be in the right place in your life to begin writing.

ERIKA MEITNER:  I would definitely agree with Kiki 100% on all of this. I started Holy Moly Carry Me the day of the Newtown school shootings. And I arrived at Virginia Tech in 2007, the Fall after the mass shooting here. And one of the things I never thought I’d be writing about before I got here was gun culture and gun violence. And a lot of the book deals with that element of living here in Appalachia. And I think it took a moment where the age of the children who were being gunned down in Newtown were the same age as my children. And that was something that felt like it forced me to enter that conversation in a really palpable way. And there were all these other really dire things going on that are still going on, the immigration debate, the election protests, unarmed black people getting gunned down by police. And all of those things had personal connections to me. But I wasn’t able to really process a lot of it before the moment where Newtown spurred me into starting to write it. So I think sometimes there are catalytic events, too, that push you to the moment of, I’m going to write about this.

I think one of the things I was hoping while I was writing this book was that it would become obsolete before it was published and that just didn’t happen. The Orlando shootings happened right as I was finishing it up and there had been a lull. And gun violence is something, obviously that keeps happening. When you write about systemic issues like racism, like violence, like environmental crisis, they’re issues that unfortunately keep happening. And how we choose to address them as artists, I think, the three of us work through them really differently but all through, to some extent, our personal connections, experience and observations. 

BRIAN TEARE:  I love that. I love the way the three of us are working that way in these parallel tracks. Because I think all three of us, maybe, also began on some level, with a somatic knowledge that eventually needs to … At whatever point, either through research or through a chance conjunction of historical events, gets catalyzed into poetry and into music and into narrative. And I think for me, writing Doomstead Days started when I still lived in California and there was an oil spill, the tanker Cosco Busan grazed the Bay Bridge and then leaked, I forget how many thousands of gallons. 47 or something thousand gallons, 58,000 gallons of fuel into the Bay. And I had actually never lived, even though I grew up in Exxon Valdez spill, the y’all remember it, it was a thing in childhood and we all remember Dawn dish soap saved the day. And I had that as intellectual knowledge but I had never been near an oil spill. And I had never seen oiled water in person. And I had also never visited a marine animal rescue center and actually watched birds get scrubbed down with Dawn dish soap and little tiny toothbrushes. 

And it was actually watching an oiled cormorant thrash in the hands of one of the people who were trying to help it that was the trigger for the book. That was the moment where all of the intellectual knowledge I had about environmental catastrophe and crisis, and all of the reading I had done and the history in various environmental histories and natural history and environmental writing, it all coalesced into finally a crystal of experience and of somatic bodily knowing that made me actually, it hooked my body into my conscience and the two fused and I was like okay, now I hear the call. And I know this in a way that I am pulled into and that I will never not be beholden to again. 

And so for me, the rest of the book, that is in the first poem of the book and the rest of the book, even though I moved from California to Philly, I read Philly through that lens of being beholden to this larger network of creatures and how we’re all deeply enmeshed in the oil industry in various ways. So for me, not unlike for y’all, there’s always an experiential moment that calls my knowing into a more forceful relation to the poem and that demands to be spoken. And I think of it as conscience. There’s … It’s also music and it’s also feeling and all those things but there’s a core of conscience now for me that’s part of that calling.

KEVIN MCFADDEN:  It’s amazing this far into this incredible reading and some questions of conscience didn’t come up earlier. That’s a great tie here. You have all been wonderful. I thank you for taking us into these places, sometimes difficult, certainly complex and being such thoughtful stewards with that intention. I think the Festival has granted us a wish for this excellent work and that is, knowing we have been so relatively restricted in our movements, you’re going to get to wish you were anywhere. If you could travel, after this reading, boom in your minds you are there, where might it be? Where and why? Rapid fire. Let’s reverse it. How about you first, Brian?

BRIAN TEARE:  I would be on Hawk Mountain in central Pennsylvania during the Fall raptor migration, being part of the raptor count watching all of the different species of raptors make their way southwest down the Appalachians. It’s just one of the most beautiful, incredible experiences and then also it’s very social. You’re there with all the scientists doing the counts, and it’s like a tailgate party but for birds. 

KEVIN MCFADDEN:  How about you, Kiki?

KIKI PETROSINO:  I would be home in my mother’s house. That’s what I wish for. It’s been more than a year since I’ve seen her and she’s gotten her first vaccination. And so I have high hopes that my wish will come true and that we’ll all be vaccinated soon and that I’ll be able to go and enjoy being with family again. 

ERIKA MEITNER:  And I haven’t been alone for about a year, because I’ve been in my house with my children and my family. So I would love to take myself to New York City and check myself into a hotel for a night by myself and go to the Whitney and the revamped MOMA and hang out with the art and then have dinner with my parents who I also haven’t seen for over a year. So yeah, I would love to do all those things some day. 

KEVIN MCFADDEN:  That would be great and it’s my wish that they all come true before too long. Thank you all, again, thank you Erika, Kiki, Brian. I’d also like to thank the two amazing artists, Mike Powers and Laura Pharis who had a role in the amazing broadsides we saw and the folks at the Virginia Center for the Book, the artists who helped make it. Thanks to everyone who’s watching. And please consider, these are great company while we are relatively restricted. These books, consider buying them from your local independent book seller or using a link to VA bookstore provided on You can also check out other events for the all virtual 2021 Virginia Festival of the Book at Thanks again, everybody. Bye bye. 

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