Santa Tarantula (Andrés Montoya Poetry Prize)

Santa Tarantula (Andrés Montoya Poetry Prize)

The poems in Santa Tarantula grant an urgent and haunting voice to the voiceless, explore ancient narratives, delve into Cuban history and identity, and confront trauma and violence. Jordan Pérez explores the tension between fear and reprieve, between hopelessness and light, in her debut collection, Santa Tarantula , the tenth winner of the Andrés Montoya Poetry Prize. Pérez lends voices to the forgotten: to the political dissidents, gay men, and religious minorities imprisoned in the forced-labor camps of 1960s Cuba; to biblical women who were deemed unworthy to name; to survivors of sexual violence who grapple with paralyzing fear and isolation. With rich detail, these poems weave together the stories of those who go unheard with family memories, explore moments of unspeakable tragedy with glimpses of a life beyond the trauma, and draw out what it means to be vulnerable and the strength it takes to endure. Santa Tarantula pushes through the darkness, cataloging unspoken pain and multigenerational damage, and revealing that, sometimes, survival is in the telling. "Jordan B. Pérez’ Santa Tarantula considers the devastating traces of gendered violence and intergenerational trauma, grief and pain, passed on from the state’s abuse, to the family, to the child’s body. But the girl at the center of these poems is no victim crushed into oblivion. She transfigures by her own alchemy. Pérez’ poems remind us there is always life, connection, and pleasure to be made anew." ―Heidi Andrea Restrepo Rhodes, author of The Inheritance of Haunting “In Jordan Pérez’s magnetic debut, foundational narratives―religious, girlhood―crash into each other, strike sparks that illuminate violence and tenderness. What shapes us, what disfigures us, in these poems, is yoked together with a startling imagination and language that’s precise and resonant. A memorable and powerful collection.” ―Eduardo C. Corral, author of Guillotine “Jordan Pérez lends scientific, lyrical attention to the deepest wounds within families and sexes. This fearless, economical writing haunts from the start, excavates and sings of pain and persistence.” ―Sheila Maldonado, co-judge, author of that’s what you get "Jordan Perez’s hard-driving debut finds solidarity with those run through the meat grinder of heteropatriarchy―its particular pockets and violences―and those who lifted a sabotaging instrument―or their mere selves―against that machinery. Lyrical and loud, if one were to call this book 'unflinching,' I would ask, incredulously, how they ever expected a speaker such as this to flinch." ―Kyle Dargan, Books Editor for Wondaland Arts Society Jordan Pérez works professionally in online safety and childhood sexual abuse prevention. She has an MFA in creative writing from American University and has published poetry in Poetry Magazine , Cutthroat , Poetry International , Mississippi Review , and more. Your Father Knew Many Women And they flourished, his apricot grove. Glowing after dark, they webbed together in soft gossips. They were themselves hungry. You’ll call them lonely, or sad, but you can’t say which you hoped to be true. The summer you turned 12, you thought of little else, but how he was an excellent farmer. Apricots will take whatever they can get if they are truly hungry enough. You said you understood the situation. There is nothing like a man with slender hands. You visited them to ask what he was like, to check them for scrapes from the large borer bug. You carried a salve at all times. On the bus, an old woman cradles something in a brown paper bag. You wait for the briny scream of fish or the glow of an egg tart, but all she is holding is her own hand. Letter to My Grandfather in April I have you to thank for these inheritances: a chopped plum still bleeding; dark pipe tobacco leaking from its box, strung cowrie shells glistening like virgins. Papa, your hands are now my father’s hands, your bruisebelt is his own. We are running through the wheat off 78, two generations of quiet sucking each other’s pain as you might a snakebite. My father has thrown his funeral jacket over the car antenna and it waits there like an accident. We pretend to miss its darkness. We tear apart the wheat, cry like new mothers.