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Transom:
Many of the poems in this issue seem to coalesce around themes of darkness and light. In what ratio of shade or illumination do your poems thrive? Does a dark poem need light, and vice versa?

Parko:
I’ve been reading lately about our biological need for darkness. Does our regeneration occur in this darkness? In this increasingly illuminated world, what do we lose by not taking refuge in the dark spaces? What do we do when darkness is no longer available to us (physically, metaphorically, mythologically)? For me, there is some generative (dis)/comfort in finding these sacred nooks and caves in a poem.

Transom:
These poems seem to take place in a post-apocalyptic landscape where the safe and familiar have become “uninhabitable.” But from this seemingly hopeless situation comes the miracle of the benevolent dog who communicates the secrets of this new world. How Lucy uses these lessons showcases the danger of unforeseen consequences. Are these poems parables, in a way?

Parko:
When my daughter was a baby and we were napping in bed one afternoon, I heard a strange noise in the house. My imagination took me to a vision of an intruder that meant us harm, and in that moment I felt a welling up of ferocity. I felt my jaws lengthen and my teeth sharpen. I felt some primal force awaken in me. I felt that I would bite. So this poem has something to do with that very powerful sensation … Lucy has fled from a society that is adversarial to her kind and she has come to the wilderness. The dog in the poem acts as an intermediary between ancient and contemporary knowing. What are the consequences of using the dog’s knowledge with the limitations of Lucy’s contemporary understanding? And also, what is the line between fierce protection and violence?