Space Invaders by Roxanna Bennett
“Space Invaders” by Roxanna Bennett Childhood: recurring UFO’s illuminated her nights, ladders swung from stratospheric heights, detached manner of the doctors who sliced and examined her small parts, cataloguing ribs, spine, clavicle, femurs in their labelled containers, cubed the meatier bits, murmured over their findings before the cure and connect, numb reconstruct, then the body’s transfer to the bed miles...
Float by Wendy Miles
“Float” by Wendy Miles 1. An open door. A child pauses on a step. Her head turns, lifts to hear her name float above the yard. A child is an open door. The child holds her breath at the thought of what it means —her name—stills to hook it to herself with a bright pin. A child is a breath. A name is a bright pin. 2. A low sink. An open window. A mother leans at the low sink, shirt off, breasts pressed to a towel....
Someone Blundered by Leonore Hildebrandt
“Someone Blundered” by Leonore Hildebrandt For nothing was simply one thing. Virginia Woolf While father paces and declares, mother takes a moment by the window. In her own room, the girl finds that words are emboldened by the sounds of waves–– the other Lighthouse was true too. Here the picture wants a daub–– perhaps this time it is their boat. The girl is...
Solitary Prism by Kathleen Hellen
“Solitary Prism” by Kathleen Hellen —at the House of Inscriptions, Little Moreton Hall, Aug. 3, 1649 in this custom of the bride—a girl The beautiful gardens encircling The trefoils and the quatrefoils as rings inside of rings The long gallery where the Queen herself had danced The magnificent bay where panes were scored on upper-storey windows The “a” looks like an...
Three-Legged Foal by Yania Padilla Sierra
“Three-Legged Foal” by Yania Padilla Sierra Who built this pen I am kept in? Stark and sterile, no tender grass For my tender mouth. No sweet bales to lie on. Run I would, if walk could I. I am a three-legged foal. In the amniotic ocean A lovely cinder Venus was I, ‘til Father cracked his whip, splitting the mare And in so doing was I. Mare a gnashing Fury in her anguish. I proffered my leg-Mother, maim I....
Art is my taste for freedom. I drown day and day until I pick up my paintbrush once again. So, somehow, I can tell myself that you’re not stuck in this room and that the canvas is the key.
Nina Salvadoré
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Seabed or ocean floor? What is the difference?
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WAVES ALIVE is an immersive experience held tenderly by the ebb and flow of ritual, sisterhood, creative expansion, then surfacing to share what we have uncovered about ourselves and our art.
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Immersion Aug 29, 2025
