Pine Row Issue No. 12 Winter 2026 - Featured Poet
At one for the first time with my own breath
For my father, Feb 14, 1933 – Aug 24, 2021
For my mother, Jun 21, 1936 – Oct 4, 2021
The road going home was pocked
with holes, some animal chasing you
down shadowed alleys. Your mother
no longer a broken promise.
The wind sings to me.
Footsteps rustle in the witchgrass.
The flute of your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows.
Brighten flesh in slap.
I’ll give you something to cry about.
The sound of them letting you down.
I hid sometimes in the closet.
The belly grips memory longer than any tongue.
I know this dream like the lines of my hand.
Burden me with your secret voice.
Did you hear the wind consoling the leaves?
Tell me, how can desecration and music
have this world in common?
Because my father walked the earth
with a grave, I lifted my skirt and tucked
totems inside for simmering,
another space emptied by loss.
With practice, beauty can be put back together.
You were each other’s bad bargain, not mine.
***
Cento with lines from: David Young, Natasha Trethewey, Michelle Bitting, Julia B. Levine, Etheridge Knight, Megan O’Rourke, Galway Kinell, Brenda Shaughnessy, Franz Wright, Kevin Young, Ruth Stone, Kweku Abimbola, Amanda Gunn, Phyllis Levin, Li-Young Lee, Lucile Clifton. Epigraph form from Anne Sexton’s The Truth the Dead Know.
1. When you revise, what does your process look like—from first pass to final polish?
I always start with reading the poem out loud several times, listening for both the musicality of the words and where the poem feels like it loses energy or if the rhythm feels off. I also consider whether the words I’ve chosen are the “right” ones or if there might be a better sounding word with a similar meaning. I spend a lot of time with my thesaurus. I think about the verbs and whether they could be stronger or more unusual. I consider the metaphors and how they could be more surprising, especially if I’ve thrown in something I know is cliché as a first draft placeholder.
Then, since I write most of my poems in a clump, getting the words down without thinking about line or stanza breaks, I start playing with form. Sometimes after getting more “fancy” with the form, I’ll return to the original clump with some small tweaks, and other times I’ll play with couplets or quatrains, trying different line breaks and, again, reading it out loud with each pass to see where the poem wants to breathe. Then, I’ll look at the order of the stanzas and see if they need to move around, while keeping an eye out for what could be edited out since I have more of a tendency to overwrite than underwrite.
I read and re-read the title and the first line many times, knowing those are what draw people into the poem, and also the last line, as that’s what makes the final impression on the reader. I always remember the advice I received from Ellen Bass at a workshop years ago that a poem is like a party, you want to arrive late and leave early.
2. What’s on your nightstand right now—anything you’re currently reading (or meaning to start)?
I’m a book junkie and feel compelled to buy new books from poets whose work I know, as well as poets I personally know, and poets I’ve read a new poem by and want to get to know. So, I always have stacks of unread or partially read poetry books on my desk, my nightstand, and the top of the low bookshelf in my home office. The newest one of those in the last category is Wildness Before Something Sublime by Leila Chatti.
In the other part of my life (when I’m not poeting), I lead a nonprofit that offers free expressive arts workshops for women who have experienced trauma. This spring, we will be leading a retreat on healing from grief, so I am reading from books of grief poems to see what we might want to include in the retreat, especially The Cure for Sorrow by Jan Richardson, and The Art of Losing, edited by Kevin Young, which was also the source of several of the poems whose lines comprise my cento: “At one for the first time with my own breath.”
3. When you sit down to write, what’s your writing process—how do you go from idea to finished draft?
I don’t have a single writing process. I take a lot of online generative writing workshops with various teachers to get new ideas and inspiration for writing poems. In fact, this poem started in a workshop on Found Poetry led by Chad Frame, in which we also played with erasure and collage poems. I’ve written several “current events” poems, and those usually start on my computer after I’ve read a news story that piques my curiosity.
I also start many first drafts in my iPhone Notes, often while I’m out walking. I’ll copy the ones that really grab me into a word doc and add/edit from there, but many of the Notes poems, as well as many quick write drafts from workshops are what I consider my “mulch writing.” Occasionally, I’ll come back to them later, sometimes I’ll steal a line or two for another poem, and other times they’re just part of the creative process but not destined to be finished poems.
4. Anything else we should know - upcoming book, personal website?
Yes, I am so excited to share that my first full-length collection, Dragonfly Puzzle Box, will be released by Sheila-Na-Gig Editions this Fall.
My personal website is: https://www.elyabraden.com/.
Elya Braden is a writer and mixed-media artist living in Oxnard, CA, and is an editor for Gyroscope Review. She is the author of the chapbooks, Open The Fist and The Sight of Invisible Longing. Her full-length collection, Dragonfly Puzzle Box, is forthcoming from Sheila-Na-Gig Editions in 2026. Her work has been published in Anthropocene, Anacapa Review, Burningword Literary Journal, South Florida Poetry Journal, The Shore, Thimble, and elsewhere. Her poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best New Poets.
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