Victoria Mbabazi : Two poems

 

 

GAME NIGHT AT THE FIFTH HOUSE

Do you want me
to put the poison in the wine I’m drinking
or in the beer you’ll drink later?
Are you still mad at me?
If an Apple dies as a tree
falls into an ocean
Are you still staying the night?
Do you want to leave me?

I love party games
Mafia is my favourite
You are good at killing
loving is better
familiar and fatal

I am good at knowing
the mood of a door
when it closes
If the tap is crying
when it doesn’t shut
all the way off I am good

at engulfing my space
the couch is capable of breathing
and it keeps breaking its legs
I can be good I promise
I am great at becoming
whatever you want me to be
Give me a second give me time

Let me show you I promise
I can walk back into that burning target
and remember all the things
you wanted from the store

 

 

 

OVEREASY

there’s a chance I won’t love you tomorrow I say this hoping the night sky will continue to border us but I also know a place we could get married so I could put my heart in your hands promising the blood won’t get all over your dress and I won’t love you tomorrow

though the sky has one star in it but usually it has no stars in it usually it’s covered in clouds or smoke and shooting planes or whatever BoB said but you won’t know me tomorrow and right now your eyes are the softest they’ve ever been coloured like beer glass

framed in tear stains wide anticipating our relief or we could be forever for a moment we could make promises just call them fever dreams in the morning over eggs and burnt coffee then when the hangover sets in I’ll notice the ring on my finger and swallow it so you can be lost if you’d like and I can belong still to you

 

 

 

 

Victoria Mbabazi is currently Canadian in Brooklyn, New York. victoriambabazi.ca

Kim Fahner : Talking to Strangers, by Rhea Tregebov

Talking to Strangers, Rhea Tregebov
Vehicule: 2024

 

 

 

 

I’ve been a fan of Rhea Tregebov’s poetry for a long time now, so when I heard she was releasing a new book of poems, I waited impatiently for it to come into the world. Talking to Strangers is full of lyric poems that take notice of the seemingly simple things that people might often take for granted: unexpected meetings in an airport, on a British Columbia beach while walking, outside a hospital on a sidewalk, and in a café. As with all good poetry, Tregebov is mindful in observing the world around her—writing poems that speak about the complexity (as well as the paradoxical simplicity) of love, grief, praise, confusion, and mortality.

The poet does not shirk from writing pandemic-era poems, documenting and recalling the heightened tension and uncertainty of those early lockdowns. Forced to be inside so much back then, we were isolated and clumped into “bubbles” or “clusters.” Our freedom became walks, times when we would encounter—and talk to—strangers. The people we might once have avoided because they were strangers quickly became the very people we most yearned to cross paths with on neighbourhood sidewalks.

In “Talk: Karma,” the speaker tells of a man she has encountered in the airport, someone who has traveled 18 hours, speaking of the worries he has for his ill sister in Manila. As her flight is soon departing, the speaker says, “we tell him goodbye, decline his offered hand.” In “Talk: Tangle,” there is “an ancient hippie with a Southern drawl” who “may/or may not believe in vaccines,” so the speaker chooses to “sit/at a healthy distance.” In “Talk: Mask,” the encounter with a stranger takes an ominous turn. After visiting her sister in palliative care, the speaker walks into the street, only to meet a man who, through a mask, “fake-coughs, growls: I have Covid.” She reacts, telling the man’s friend that her sister is dying. His disregard for her well- being and health angers her as it threatens her ability to sit with her sibling during her last hours. What seeps into this poem is the feeling that the world during the pandemic was upside down, with some taking greater care with people, while others showed much less compassion.

Another theme that is present in Talking to Strangers is that of how we learn to value life itself through our meetings with loss in a variety of forms. In the first poem in the book, “What We Are Left,” the reader meets a 2000-year-old mummy whose loved ones “didn’t want you to be alone” and so “buried miniature terracotta vases, glass pots for healing oils, balms.” In “Kaddish: Villanelle,” the speaker recites a prayer for her father, coming “to know the words with all my heart, all my might,/& I say them when I lie down & when I rise up,” but struggling to understand how to manage the intense grief that arrives after a funeral. Looking for answers to questions about mortality, love, and loss, “God” has its speaker taking note of “an eagle high/above the Pacific,” making a heartfelt wish to return in another incarnation as a bird—“above everything earthly,” but still somehow “of the earth.”

The final sequence, “Behold: Notes Towards an Elegy,” is a small series of poems that are dedicated to the poet’s sister. Poignant and strong, these pieces speak of how we manage and continue to exist when the bottom of our worlds have dropped out. With someone dying, the centre of a person’s life (the one who remains) is “snatched” and everything becomes a kaleidoscope of memory and emotion: “Grief here/not you.//You’re nowhere/in these words.” For poets and writers—who find the act of reading and writing comforting in both good and bad times—to not find that comfort in the written word often increases the intensity of the pain of grief.

Talking to Strangers asks its readers to consider how best to “navigate/the weight of what/you had and don’t/anymore, of losing/what you couldn’t/do without.” How do we manage when the things (and people) we love disappear? How do we find meaning in the middle of the stark and confusing emptiness that accompanies deep loss? Perhaps, in reading these poems, we find respite in the lines and stanzas, but also in the people we meet in quiet, unexpected ways through our daily interactions. Tregebov suggests we also find those we loved dearly in the memories we have collected over the years, gathering and holding them close so that we can visit those times, people, and places who have now gone away. The collection also gives readers quiet permission to accept the notion that being confused after loss is a state that must be traversed without clear direction or guidance. We find our vulnerability, and our strength, in living with and through the loss of love, even as we continue to search for connection and meaning in the world around us.

 

 

 

 

Kim Fahner lives and writes in Sudbury, Ontario. Her latest full collection of poems is Emptying the Ocean (Frontenac House, 2022) and she's just published a poetry chapbook, Fault Lines and Shatter Cones (Emergency Flash Mob Press, 2023). She is the First Vice-Chair for The Writers' Union of Canada (2023-25), a member of the League of Canadian Poets, and a supporting member of the Playwrights Guild of Canada. Kim's first novel, The Donoghue Girl, will be published by Latitude 46 Publishing in Fall 2024. She may be reached via her author website at www.kimfahner.com

Samantha Jones, Karen Enns, Luke Hathaway/Daniel Cabena, Endi Hartigan + Katie Ebbitt : virtual reading series #31

a series of video recordings of contemporary poets reading from their work, originally prompted by the Covid-19 pandemic and subsequent cancellations, shut-downs and isolations; a reading series you can enjoy in the safety of your own protected space,

Samantha Jones : “Three Monuments,” published in G U E S T 22 (March 2022), edited by Kyle Flemmer, published by above/ground press.

Samantha Jones (she/her) lives and writes in Moh’kins’tsis (Calgary, Alberta) on the traditional territory of the Treaty 7 peoples, and home to the Métis Nation of Alberta, Region 3. Sam is a magazine and journal enthusiast with writing in THIS, Room, Grain, CV2, Watch Your Head, GeoHumanities, Arctic, and elsewhere. Her visual poetry chapbook, Site Orientation, was published by the Blasted Tree in the spring of 2022. Sam has a background in geology and is currently a PhD Candidate in the Department of Geography at the University of Calgary where she studies carbon cycling in the Canadian Arctic. She comes from a mixed background; she is white settler and Black Canadian. Sam enjoys developing content, including workshops, that highlight underrepresented voices and writers—she is the founder and facilitator of the Diverse Voices Roundtable for BIPOC Writers at the Alexandra Writers’ Centre Society in Calgary. When she isn’t up to her eyeballs in science or poetry, you can find her making epic constructions with her kiddo or browsing the book and stationary shops of Calgary.

Karen Enns : “Place of the Steelhead,” “Middens, Gordon Head,” “Night Sounds” and “Almost”

Karen Enns is the author of three previous books of poetry: Cloud Physics, winner of the Raymond Souster Award, Ordinary Hours, and That Other Beauty. She lives in Victoria, British Columbia.

Luke Hathaway and Daniel Cabena : As the hart…

Daniel Cabena (co-creator, with Luke Hathaway, of the audio book for The Affirmations) is a concert singer, recitalist, chamber musician, and singing actor; he is also a curator of texts and music. With Luke he shares the artistic direction of ANIMA, a metamorphosing ensemble — a place where old texts and melodies are animated by spirit and voice. To this work Daniel brings a background in early music and liturgical music scholarship and a commitment to exploring how music functions in different performance contexts and traditions. Daniel’s singing and teaching are also informed by the Alexander Technique, in which movement education field he is a teacher-trainee. He teaches singing and music at Wilfrid Laurier University and at Laurier's Beckett School of Music in Waterloo.

Luke Hathaway is a trans poet, librettist, and theatre maker who lives in Kjipuktuk/Halifax, where he teaches English literature and creative writing at Saint Mary’s University. His mythopoeic word-worlds have given rise to new choral works by Colin Labadie, James Rolfe, and Zachary Wadsworth, and to the folk opera the sign of jonas, a collaboration with Benton Roark. He is the author of four collections of poetry, one of which — Years, Months, and Days — was named a Best Book of the Year in the New York Times. His most recent collection, The Affirmations (‘a trans-mystical work of love and change’), is published by Biblioasis.

Endi Bogue Hartigan : crawdads being most precise ; second entries: |clippablefan|; hour entry: all galaxies are not clocks ; you be the woodcutter ; hour entry: All bells must hold all clocks

Endi Bogue Hartigan’s latest book oh orchid o’clock (Omnidawn Publishing, 2023) explores clock measure, temporal presence in today’s realities, and impacts of our obsessions with time and instrumentation. She is author of the seaweed sd treble clef (Oxyeye Press, 2021), a chapbook of poems and photographs; the poetry book Pool [5 choruses] (Omnidawn, 2014) which was selected for the Omnidawn Open Prize; a collaborative chapbook out of the flowering ribs (Linda Hutchins and EBH, 2012); and One Sun Storm (Center for Literary Publishing, 2018), which won the Colorado Prize for Poetry. Her work has also appeared in numerous journals and in collaborative projects with artists and writers in the Pacific Northwest. More on her work is at endiboguehartigan.com.

Katie Ebbitt : from AIR SIGN

Katie Ebbitt is a poet/psycho-behavioralist living in NYC. She is the author of the chapbooks ANOTHER LIFE (Counterpath, 2016), Para Ana (Inpatient, 2019), Air Sign (Creative Writing Department, 2024) and HYSTERICAL PREGNANCY (above/ground press, 2024). Fecund, her first full-length book, will be released by Keith LLC.

Michael Trussler : New Work by Medrie Purdham

 

 

 

 

Medrie Purdham’s debut poetry collection, Little Housewolf (Véhicule Press, 2021), won the City of Regina Award for the 2022 Saskatchewan Book Awards, and was also short-listed for the Gerald Lampert Award. This book of so-called “domestic miniatures” was justifiably acclaimed for its virtuosity and unpredictable jubilance. Intensely imagined in terms of subject matter and verbal dexterity, the poems in Little Housewolf contain some of the finest lyric poetry being written today. Reading them, one can almost overhear the individual words murmuring gratitude at suddenly finding themselves appearing on the page together. An extraordinarily inventive poet, Purdham’s writing has been published in Best Canadian Poetry several times, and she’s currently working on another collection. If this new work simply extended her success in Little Housewolf, it would find many enthusiasts—her signature style of exquisite exuberance is present in the poems she’s been writing lately—but she’s doing some things differently now. She’s developed the confidence not only to write longer poems (“Cursive,” a tribute to a grandmother who lived with Alzheimer’s, is almost nine pages long), but also to engage in more formal experimentation. Most important to the new writing, Purdham contracted COVID in late 2020 and is now contending with Long COVID. Her earlier writing had an enviably broad intellectual and emotional range; her new poems maintain this steady curiosity in the world, but there’s more grief. The anguish is punishing. Worried that her wounded brain wouldn’t be capable of writing poetry, she began studying the Rubik’s Cube, improving her skill at solving the puzzle (her personal best is two and a half minutes), and came upon a provisional title for the new collection: The Solve, a word that embodies the challenges of the Rubik’s Cube and the difficulty involved in creating new work. There is, she writes, “the purity of salvage.” I met with her in February in Regina to talk about the collection on which she’s been working.

As a longtime admirer of her poetry, I’m relieved and thrilled that she’s been entirely successful at writing more poems. Her sheer joy in words persists in the new work. From “Megafauna”:

When my father mentions

the giraffe he autopsied in that rosette year,

I’m ruminant. Did the bloodfaulted giraffe

die, was the question, of a cavorting malice?

Was it full of arsenic. It fell to my father to know.

Who dives inside us? Who breaches the boundary?

      (emphasis in original)

It’s “a mid-life book,” Purdham told me, when I commented on the collection’s gravitas, its poignant explorations of grief alongside its elastic experiments in structure. There is honest despair, which is hard to maintain and harder to get right on the page. The Rubik’s cube, she learns, “like all platonic solids [has] a knack for elegy.” But the moments of elegy in these poems are grappling with the possibility that the talent responsible for the first book is irretrievably lost to neurological damage. COVID has turned the speaker’s mind in “Cursive” to “a single rubber glove”:

little nubblesquid,

rippling into itself, a blabber of a handshake. Frankly,

 

this is not how I wanted to touch things.

Its suctionverse is stealing all the nomenclature!

 

. . . Make it stop.

The poems don’t stop, their unstinting integrity refuses to turn away from their fear of incapacity. And fortunately, Purdham’s gift for encouraging words to rejoice in being themselves hasn’t abandoned her. The poem “What the Fog Wasn’t” is an astonishing repudiation of so-called COVID brain fog. Playfully excoriating the imprecision of the term, the poem identifies the way that all damage, whether neurological or existential, manifests a shape particular to each person who experiences these confusions and griefs. The poem should be circulated among health care workers certainly, but all of us need to take in the “flare / where thought was,” the “exoskeletons / [the fog has left] on the windowsill.” I’ve no doubt that Purdham will complete this book and it will expand the readership her debut collection so deservedly gathered. The poems in Little Housewolf were composed pre-COVID. As more and more people become battered by the pandemic and its ongoing trauma, these new poems go far to make Purdham’s work important in a new way. They’ve become necessary.   

 

 

 

 

Michael Trussler [photo credit: Amy Snider] writes primarily poetry and creative non-fiction. His work has been anthologized both domestically and internationally. He has received Saskatchewan Book Awards for poetry, non-fiction and short stories. His memoir concerning mental illness, The Sunday Book, was published by Palimpsest Press in 2022. Two poetry collections have recently appeared: Rare Sighting of a Guillotine on the Savannah (Mansfield Press, 2021) and The History Forest (University of Regina Press, 2022). Radiant Press and Icehouse Press will be publishing the poetry collections Realia and 10:10 respectively in 2024. All of his work engages with the beauty and violence of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, though his most recent writing specifically explores what it means to be alive at the beginning of the Anthropocene.

Amy Glynn : Process Note #36 : Romance Language

The 'process notes' pieces were originally solicited by Maw Shein Win as addendum to her teaching particular poems and poetry collections for various workshops and classes. This process note and poems by Amy Glynn are part of her curriculum for Maker, Mentor, Muse and her poetry classes at the University of San Francisco. Thanks for reading.

 

 

In 2012, I wasn’t “processing” much but trauma (unless you count copious amounts of coffee). I was very preoccupied with loss and death—largely my own, but also the deaths of friends, family members, jobs, lovers, marriage, phases of life. I had recently published my first book. I had some ideas swirling for a second one but it felt monumentally out of reach. Shortly before I left for a fellowship at the James Merrill House, I had a vivid dream. In it, Merrill (looking as he had in the early 90s, the first and only time I ever met him) stood before a wall of books in a sun-drenched room. He was speaking intently to me, but soundlessly. He kept gesturing at the bookshelves; there was (clearly) something there that he wanted me to see. For days afterward the image replayed like the cyclical crackles of a record player stylus at the end of a groove. Looking back, I’d probably seen photos of the apartment when I’d applied for the fellowship, but when I arrived, I was stunned to find I’d accurately dreamed Merrill’s upstairs solarium.

Merrill was (and is) one of my most powerful influences, a writer whose formal acrobatics and massive, symphonic vocabulary took my breath away. A month in the mise en scene for The Changing Light at Sandover was a serious pilgrimage for me.

But I was really blocked. I’d even resorted to the derpy but inevitable: soliciting Merrill’s legendary Ouija board for advice. It was… uncooperative, which hardly seemed fair. Yeats and Auden had been having such a laid-back afterlife they had time for years of cosmos-splaining colloquy with Jimmy. After all the years I’d spent with his poems, why was Merrill pulling a “new phone who dis?” cold-shoulder worthy of my worst ex?

I have “formalist” leanings, though I dislike the term. I have a theory that formalists are people with extremely chaotic minds who turn to formal containers in a bid to impose some kind of order on the inner wilderness. My poetry collections never come together meaningfully without an organizing principle, “high concept” or other framing device. I’ve given up fighting it. I had the book’s title, several of the poems and a sense of its key themes—loss and disintegration, Romanticism and “authority,” permanence and impermanence, structure itself and its inevitable collapse—but I was foundering.

2012 was an epic leaf year in Connecticut. As a Bay Area native there are few things I find more exotically dazzling than a New England broadleaf forest in October. I walked to the Stonington cemetery every day. On this one I was sitting among the grave markers, feeling very alone and more than a little hung over thanks to a post-reading dinner party where I’d had too much champagne, when the wind kicked up and it started raining bronze and scarlet and yellow and purple leaves—and I left my body.  

There’s a phenomenon called the Casimir effect, where if you place two mirrors opposite one another and stand between them, you can see the reflection of your reflection and the reflection of your reflection’s reflection in a receding cascade of identical images. Suddenly I saw the entire universe like that… it was as if the past and the future had become interchangeable; everything became part of a vast cosmic mandala, images repeating, elaborating, telescoping.  This went on for over an hour, during which, if you happened to be walking past the cemetery, you would have seen a crazy or very high-seeming person leaping off headstones, singing at the top of her lungs, and twirling like a child in a party dress trying to catch leaves. It would take me six more years to actually complete the book, but everything I needed came through in that hour. The Ouija board might’ve been mum…. But the trees and headstones were giving up the goods bigtime.

A favorite fragment of Sandover has Merrill moaning about his Ouija-mediated assignment to write “poems of science,” despite being a science-nebbish who couldn’t be expected to work with words like “mitochondria.”  Then…

Whereas through Wave, Ring, Bond, through Spectral Lines
And Resonances, blows a breath of life….

The quote itself had featured prominently in a craft lecture I’d delivered on a sanity-thrashing trip to Rome the previous summer. I considered the word-play value of those words, as I had in that lecture: Ring, as in bell, as in wedding, as in telephone, as in benzene; Bond, as in familial, chemical, financial, adhesive, legal; as in shackles, paper, brick patterning. It was all there. In Sandover, Merrill drew on Yeats’s A Vision, finally leaning into an influence he’d tried to obscure in earlier work. I’d been trying to de-Merrillize my poems since I was sixteen—now, though, I took those “monosyllabic bezoars already found in the gullet of a three-year-old” for section titles: Wave, Ring, Bond, Spectral lines, Resonances, Breath of Life, Eclogue. Tiles of the mosaic began to fall into place. I started with Rome itself. Hadrian’s Villa:

Even the dust is dazzling: glinting grit,
biotite mica’s black fire in the dirt,

glass pulverized underfoot. The grandiose
wreckage goes on forever. Everything

recrystallizes over time; chert turns
to flint, shale turns to slate, acanthus leaves

blanch, petrify;

, the Pantheon:

The info enters the eyeball in reverse,
and the mind upends it. Radial symmetry
has always ruled the mandala: let there be
the visible image of the universe,

imposed on the sky like a film on a cinema screen.
Adult themes: tensile strength and the sublime
eloquence of omission.  

The pigeons in the Campo dei’ Fiori:

We survive

by cobbling things together; we’re about
acceptance. Which is not the same as peace.
It’s letting things be piecemeal, rather; thriving
on it, omnivorous, adaptive to the nth.

It’s taking what the world gives with reflexive
good grace, humbly reflective on its each
small simple gratification: the left over,
cast off, accretive tesserae, the cracks

between the stones where anything can lodge.
We dodge contempt. We are the square’s familiars.
We sample what’s on offer, and we never
complain it’s not enough.

…the Villa Borghese, the Janiculum, Baroque churches, public fountains. Some of the poems overtly play with poems of Merrill’s, especially utilizing his go-to, Casimir-effect ABBA stanzas:

 

Mandala

Your point's made, I'm an infidel.
But who needs friends
To remind him that nothing either lasts or ends?
Garrulous as you, dear, Time will tell.

                       –James Merrill, “Mandala”

 

Infidel. That’s a funny word for it.
Perhaps instead
call this saccade, the eye getting ahead
of a distance shift or a change in light. We ought

to say enlightened or lucid or something better than lit
on just-OK
bourbon. Why infidel?

Others “converse” with poems by Mary Jo Salter (my college mentor and definitely my other poetry-parent), Richard Kenney, Keith Waldrop, Homer, or Romantic masters like Coleridge and (especially) Keats, who graciously provided two riffs on his odes, including this one where I aped not only the structure of “To Autumn” but (because I am that kind of geek) its exact rhyme phonemes:

Cue up the twist: things yellow and senesce
And curl in on themselves and come undone.
Botrytis-botched, yeast-bloomed, decadent mess
Of must and pomace, arrows of geese nocked one
After another and loosed southward. Freeze,
Bud: keep those carpals in plain sight. No more:
Call off the withdrawal of chloroplastic cells
That spurs the stupid deciduous woodland’s war
Of attrition. Detachment’s well and good but please,
Stop the parade now and grant us all some peace
From chatterbox blackbird flocks and dumb autumn smells.

What I struggled with longest was the “spectral lines” section, which I intended to be a series of poems but was reduced to one in the end: a sestina, that most miserable of formalist torture devices and the only one that even came close—though I doubt anything truly ever will come close—to commemorating that day in the Stonington Cemetery. 

October 2012

Now every cell wall paints itself with flame:
Water Street’s ginkgos go to sulfur; shades
of burnt orange claim the beeches, the late light
acting as an accelerant. The Sound
is offering its ghost-notes up as well;
gongs, restive boats. Everything else is leaves.

Chlorophyll gets costly, so the leaves
discard it, baring arteries of flame
and bronze. I’d like to tell you all is well
here, that the bony twigs that tap those shades
message me all night long, meting out sound
like small-hours text pings, substantively light

though dazzlingly composed. But you are light
years from me now, a ghost who rustles leaves
and rattles glassware. Light pools on the Sound,
clouds edged in a mystic fire like the flame
in a sunstone. We must not forget our shades:
it’s blinding out. Let’s get blind—leaving well

enough alone is not what we do well:
uncork the spirits. Nothing’s brought to light,
but this is what we have instead of shades
who bring field notes from Asphodel on leaves
torn from a chestnut bursting into flame
in a cemetery where the only sound

is a spiky hail of conkers. Let them sound
off as they will, hallow the ground with well-
worn sermons on detachment. Here, old flame,
watch this limb, on which gregarious sparrows light
en masse, so thick they almost look like leaves—
they leave as if blown by gusts, till nothing shades

this place or hides us from each other. Shades
will always follow us: however sound
our plans, our places, you’re what never leaves
me, and vice versa. Phototropins well
and wane in concert with the slanting light,
bartering greenness for a heart of flame

year after year. Rake up the leaves. Then light
the pile, and sound what depths you can from flame
rising. I’m doing shades of that as well.

 

 

 

Amy Glynn is an award-winning poet and essayist whose work appears widely in journals and anthologies including The Best American Poetry (2010, 2012, 2024). Her first book, A Modern Herbal, was published by Measure Press in 2013. Her second, Romance Language, won the 2022 Able Muse Book Award. Amy has received the SPUR Award of the Academy of Western Writers, The Troubadour Prize, Poetry Northwest's Carolyn Kizer Award and the Literal Latte Essay Award among other honors, and has received two James Merrill House fellowships. She served as the inaugural Poet Laureate for the cities of Lafayette and Orinda, and lives and works in the East Bay.

Maw Shein Win's most recent poetry collection is Storage Unit for the Spirit House (Omnidawn) which was nominated for the Northern California Book Award in Poetry, longlisted for the PEN America Open Book Award, and shortlisted for CALIBA's Golden Poppy Award for Poetry. She is the inaugural poet laureate of El Cerrito, CA. Win's previous books include full-length poetry collection Invisible Gifts and two chapbooks, Ruins of a glittering palace and Score and Bone. Win often collaborates with visual artists, musicians, and other writers and her Process Note Series features poets on their process. She teaches in the MFA Program at the University of San Francisco. Along with Dawn Angelicca Barcelona and Mary Volmer, she is a co-founder of Maker, Mentor, Muse, a new literary community. Win’s full-length collection Percussing the Thinking Jar (Omnidawn) is forthcoming in Fall 2024. mawsheinwin.com