Per my last email (but not in the exasperated valence in which I usually use and then delete that phrase from an email), I am writing to notify those of y'all in Chicago that I will be reading at this launch party shindig at my favorite bar the evening of Tuesday, June 9. (Apologies to other bars, but the Whistler is the only place where I have ever been encouraged to bring a free 7-11 Slurpee to the bartenders on 7/11, so they might improve it with Fernet, and for this among many other reasons, including its pleasant cozy patio, it is a slice of weird beverage dweeb paradise. I don't think they do that Slurpee thing anymore though.)

I'm planning to read some new poems in which I riff with goofy sincerity on the aubade tradition, because an "aubade" is a poem that takes place at dawn, and it's impossible for me to be awake at dawn without being in a loopy headspace where everything seems positively lambent with possible metaphors. (Mentally I'm calling the series Now That's What I Call Aubades.) It'd be a delight to have y'all there.

This is the poetry information I have for you today, along with an intention to write in the not-too-distant future about a book of poems that bowled me over with beautiful verse about grief and the awareness of suffering and also the transcendence of lesbian sex. Please, dear email pals, hold me accountable to holler into some Markdown text editing software about Perpetua by Olga Broumas later this month.

Yours in sapphic silliness, Erin