Cover features artwork by Norman Lewis. It is a black canvas with streaks of white escaping from a central mass.

Drowning in Light

Taylor Steele

$18.00 $12.40 (includes shipping)

978-1-913007-16-4 · 48 pages · 156 × 234 mm · Mar. 2022

In Drowning in Light we traverse the daily—the sickness, the loneliness, and the hope that yawns from within. There are continuous trails of light peeking through, hands grasping, fingers trailing—a notion of persistence, always.

Taylor Steele is a queer, Black, NYC-born-and-based writer, performer, and photographer. Her poetry has been featured on Huffington Post, Brooklyn Poets, Button Poetry, and is a 2016 Pushcart Nominee. A triple-Taurus, she believes in the power of art to change, shape, and heal.

Praise & Reviews

Poems here don’t just simply know peril, they writhe and conduit grief into observation of a dastardly american and symphonically Black landscape. This book’s anguish and imagination will call you in and call the world into a thrumming meditation. — Kay Ulanday Barrett

A sincere sword through the psyche, a rare reflection into this raw run we call living, Drowning in Light leaves no particle unturned & punctuates the screech of surviving. Steele, through the rigor of repetition & return, the choice to start again & again, makes us question what is life & light if not the gravity of grief, the discovery of love, the internal & eternal battle to choose yourself in the messiest of muds, in the community of clay & being a black gender. — Golden

So many times, I awed at how honest these poems were. So many times, I found myself rooting for these speakers, and in a strange way, I began rooting for myself. Drowning in Light is a journey of self-love, self-discovery, and healing; these poems are fierce with wander and willpower, with vigor and vehemence. — Luther Hughes

Drowning in Light is a Home, a Here, a Now, a garden for the lonely traveler’s knees to rest, a flickering window keeping you awake at night, the lucid dream that follows, the heartbeat in your ear when it’s pressed to the pillow, the smell of rain, the bassline in your most played song, a box of notes to self multiplying (the notes and the selves), a trail of questions stacked falling into each other like dominos. — Jess Rizkallah