Super proud of the stellar work from my graduating class at the University of Arizona. Check out our look book, and my piece, "This One Long Winter," which will be published in Fourth Genre this year.

Maybe it’s obvious, the link between rupture and injury—an organ goes berserk, a spinal disc splits and leaks, or an Achilles tendon splays. Illness, on the other hand, might come upon us more like clouds than lightning. Like a fog rolling in. And yet, doesn’t it offer its own kind of rupturing? A fever pokes holes, deflates, makes things go pop. Things like roles and routines. Soon there are no names to call upon other than “ill.” I am sick, we tell others. And if months go by with still no answers, if no path appears to take you out of your body—to uncurl your thoughts from your chest, your guts—you might start to bang on the walls. You might start to push against your own malfunction, test the boundaries of your ruptured self; to reach over the glass for other peoples’ secrets, for safety, for leverage; to air out your abject body like a secret itself. The shattering of the distinction between the self and the other.

I want everyone to see it, what’s inside. I want their needles. I want their tongues. I want their sickness so I can call it ours.