Editor's Note
Recently I attended a women’s poetry retreat in La Conner, Washington. The retreat took place at a small downtown inn, and each day the sky was bright and overcast with a hint of blue. The waterfront, a few blocks away, has the vibe of a movie set with its bookstore, ice cream parlor, and local coffee shop where the barista promises to whip up any beverage one could imagine. There are steep stone stairs set into the hillside at the top of which a breathless wanderer might view a swath of the gem-green Swinomish Channel, including smudges of white sails gently bobbing in the distance. And isn’t that a great word: Swinomish!
All weekend the gathered women wrote and shared poems. Our voices shook, and we laughed, and we gasped, and we were grateful for the time. We talked about our obsessions, about art, our families, and, yes, about the state of the country. But I did not read the news. For one weekend I lived in a pretend land made of words—and cheese. There was a fair amount of cheese.
I am aware that I’m privileged to be able to do this. To turn off the world.
And I’m aware that—as a middle class, middle-aged, white woman—I live with this privilege every day.
While I walk a wooded trail along the canal on a cool morning with two dear friends and our three somewhat unruly pups, somewhere in the U.S. a brown person is arrested for speaking out against genocide.
While I groggily stir fresh ginger into my morning chai, the Supreme Court sends civil rights back to the Jim Crow era.
My husband and I fish for rainbow trout along a cold stream that makes a mirror of the clouded sky while the government builds concentration camps for immigrants. I learn the names of the surrounding flora: Lemon balm, Mexican tea, field horsetail, scarlet monkey flower. I imagine life in a place without birdsong.
I listen to my new favorite distraction (The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion) and weave a friendship bracelet in bright colors while my son and his friend bake brown butter apple blondies with cream cheese frosting (they are gas, as the teens would say) while another commentator or politician asks: “Is he in the Epstein files?” And this, of course, is code for “Is he a pedophile?” Yes, he is. I know this because I believe women.
In the lunchroom, as I nibble fresh, ripe figs from a friend’s garden and try to locate my newly expat kid on a digital map, I hear someone say, “shot in the throat.” Whatever violence has taken place, I think, it will not bring our country together to prevent more shootings. Maddeningly, I am proven right.
A friend asked whether I have been personally affected by the GOP’s policies this year. My quick response is: not yet, but I know what’s coming. The longer answer: I am living a double life. I am surrounded by beauty, family, friendship, love, and delicious baked goods, and I am afraid. I’m not alone. Another friend says she wakes from nightmares of mass shootings, and in her dream the pain in her back takes the form of a loaded gun.
A wise therapist once told me that if someone is making you afraid—even if they never touch you—that's abuse. Well, here we are.
Perhaps it is because I’m living this double life that creating an issue of West Trestle Review as a collection of doubles seems appropriate. Our poetry editor, Katherine Huang, suggested the idea after we received the stunning artwork by Ellen June Wright. Inspired by Ellen’s diptych, the WTR team chose each poem with the intent of pairing it with another poem in the issue, whether by theme, language, tone, or a more elusive something. We’ll leave the connection to you to determine. After reading the issue, you may find that you disagree with our choices. We respect your opinion and encourage a lively debate. What I love about poetry is that it opens up so many possibilities.
The possibilities in this issue are brought to you by contributors Veronica Ashenhurst, Subhaga Crystal Bacon, Anemone Beaulier, Aditi Bhattacharjee, Caridad Cole, Leanne Dunic, Mary Anne Griffiths, Melanie Hyo-In Han, Marcy Rae Henry, Brittany N. Jaekel, Rongfei Mu, Dana Murphy, Kathryn Petruccelli, Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad, Valy Steverlynck, and Jane Zwart. Please share your appreciation of their work liberally.
Finally, maybe you’ve heard. A famous poet recently derided a West Trestler for bringing politics into an event that was “devoted to poetry.” I’m shocked. Does a man who’s devoted his life to writing believe that it’s possible to separate poetry from politics? Because it is not, in fact, possible. Every time we place our words on a page, we are engaging in a political act, and this is especially true for those of us who identify as women and as nonbinary, as we live in a world that wants to silence us.
We will not be silent.
Welcome to the September 2025 issue of West Trestle Review.
Patricia Caspers
Editor-in-Chief
All weekend the gathered women wrote and shared poems. Our voices shook, and we laughed, and we gasped, and we were grateful for the time. We talked about our obsessions, about art, our families, and, yes, about the state of the country. But I did not read the news. For one weekend I lived in a pretend land made of words—and cheese. There was a fair amount of cheese.
I am aware that I’m privileged to be able to do this. To turn off the world.
And I’m aware that—as a middle class, middle-aged, white woman—I live with this privilege every day.
While I walk a wooded trail along the canal on a cool morning with two dear friends and our three somewhat unruly pups, somewhere in the U.S. a brown person is arrested for speaking out against genocide.
While I groggily stir fresh ginger into my morning chai, the Supreme Court sends civil rights back to the Jim Crow era.
My husband and I fish for rainbow trout along a cold stream that makes a mirror of the clouded sky while the government builds concentration camps for immigrants. I learn the names of the surrounding flora: Lemon balm, Mexican tea, field horsetail, scarlet monkey flower. I imagine life in a place without birdsong.
I listen to my new favorite distraction (The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion) and weave a friendship bracelet in bright colors while my son and his friend bake brown butter apple blondies with cream cheese frosting (they are gas, as the teens would say) while another commentator or politician asks: “Is he in the Epstein files?” And this, of course, is code for “Is he a pedophile?” Yes, he is. I know this because I believe women.
In the lunchroom, as I nibble fresh, ripe figs from a friend’s garden and try to locate my newly expat kid on a digital map, I hear someone say, “shot in the throat.” Whatever violence has taken place, I think, it will not bring our country together to prevent more shootings. Maddeningly, I am proven right.
A friend asked whether I have been personally affected by the GOP’s policies this year. My quick response is: not yet, but I know what’s coming. The longer answer: I am living a double life. I am surrounded by beauty, family, friendship, love, and delicious baked goods, and I am afraid. I’m not alone. Another friend says she wakes from nightmares of mass shootings, and in her dream the pain in her back takes the form of a loaded gun.
A wise therapist once told me that if someone is making you afraid—even if they never touch you—that's abuse. Well, here we are.
Perhaps it is because I’m living this double life that creating an issue of West Trestle Review as a collection of doubles seems appropriate. Our poetry editor, Katherine Huang, suggested the idea after we received the stunning artwork by Ellen June Wright. Inspired by Ellen’s diptych, the WTR team chose each poem with the intent of pairing it with another poem in the issue, whether by theme, language, tone, or a more elusive something. We’ll leave the connection to you to determine. After reading the issue, you may find that you disagree with our choices. We respect your opinion and encourage a lively debate. What I love about poetry is that it opens up so many possibilities.
The possibilities in this issue are brought to you by contributors Veronica Ashenhurst, Subhaga Crystal Bacon, Anemone Beaulier, Aditi Bhattacharjee, Caridad Cole, Leanne Dunic, Mary Anne Griffiths, Melanie Hyo-In Han, Marcy Rae Henry, Brittany N. Jaekel, Rongfei Mu, Dana Murphy, Kathryn Petruccelli, Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad, Valy Steverlynck, and Jane Zwart. Please share your appreciation of their work liberally.
Finally, maybe you’ve heard. A famous poet recently derided a West Trestler for bringing politics into an event that was “devoted to poetry.” I’m shocked. Does a man who’s devoted his life to writing believe that it’s possible to separate poetry from politics? Because it is not, in fact, possible. Every time we place our words on a page, we are engaging in a political act, and this is especially true for those of us who identify as women and as nonbinary, as we live in a world that wants to silence us.
We will not be silent.
Welcome to the September 2025 issue of West Trestle Review.
Patricia Caspers
Editor-in-Chief
|
 |
Support the work of women and non-binary poets by making a donation today to West Trestle Review. For more information about West Trestle Review's finances, see our "About" page.