Author Q&A with Ezra Fox

Ezra lives and writes in San Francisco, CA. In their writing, they explore impermanence, and non-duality, and how it pertains to their subjects of lineage, queerness, and spirituality. You can find their work in or forthcoming in TriQuarterly, EcoTheo Review, Zone 3, Zócalo Public Square, and elsewhere, and their poem, Don’t Ask Me About the Hymns, is featured in our spring issue.

Tell us about yourself. 

I am a black, trans, and queer writer. Currently, I am slowly falling more and more in love with the bay. I just recently moved to San Francisco, and I am only now starting to settle in, though I don’t think I will ever get used to walking out of my apartment and seeing the ocean! Getting to walk down to the beach in a short five minutes every morning for sunrise and every evening for sunset feels unreal. I moved here from Bloomington, Indiana where I completed my MFA in Creative Writing at Indiana University, though I am originally from upstate New York just outside of Rochester. I hold a BA in Writing from Ithaca College.

Outside of writing, I am on this lifelong journey of becoming more comfortable with being uncomfortable, specifically with being bad at something. I feel like we get into our niches at a young age and stay in our lanes. I am all about trying new lanes and learning new things as an adult! My most recent endeavors have been roller skating and drumming, which I’ve been learning for a few years now. Catch me trying, failing, and trying again at toe spins at the local rink, or drumming along to some Paramore or Stevie Wonder. You can just imagine me as Sam from Love Actually grooving to “All I Want for Christmas” to give you a better mental picture. 

What unique or surprising detail can you tell us about the origin, revision process, and/or final version of your poem appearing in this issue? 

This poem was inspired by Michael Kleber-Diggs’ poem “Coniferous Fathers,” which reimagines father figures outside stereotypes of harshness and stoicism, envisioning instead fathers who are soft, gentle, and attentive. I don’t even remember how I came across this piece, but it’s one of those poems that moves you, aches you, and stays with you from the opening line: “Let’s fashion gentle fathers, expressive—holding us.” Like COME ON. Please go right now and read that piece.

I began to think of not just fashioning our fathers, but also “God the Father.” Can we fashion a “God the Father” who loves us in our softness, in our vulnerability, in our queerness? Although I am not religious myself, I see great benefit in these utopic imaginings.

Additionally, the title, “Don’t Ask Me About the Hymns,” plays with “Hymns” and “Hims.” I liked this idea of hymns as repetitive music that feels timeless in service, ancient yet ever-present—and thinking about queerness being just as eternal as these hymns. The title works on multiple levels: “don’t ask me about the hymns” refers to the church teachings these boys are ultimately unlearning, while “don’t ask me about the hims” speaks to my refusal to keep apologizing for or explaining the desire for authentic connection.

What did you learn (about yourself or craft or life in general) through writing and revising it? 

Through this poem, I discovered the power of lyrical digression. Part ii serves as a short lyrical aside that resonates emotionally in ways distinct from the rest of the piece. The image of David dancing came naturally to the poem, and it opened a door for me to explore more of these emotional interludes in my other work.

My poems typically exist in narrative, situating readers within specific scenes, but this piece taught me the emotional impact of these lyrical digressions. They don’t just add sonic texture—they create space for vulnerability that works differently than narrative. They can crack the reader’s heart open just a little bit more, offering a moment of breath and reflection within the larger framework of the poem.

I want to continue experimenting with these moments of lyrical pause in my work—these small sections that might seem tangential but actually carry tremendous emotional weight. They provide a different kind of intimacy, a sideways approach to feeling that complements the more direct storytelling I’m drawn to as a writer.

What do you hope readers take from the piece? 

 I think oftentimes writers are asked about their subjects, and for me, currently, it would be queerness, spirituality, lineage, all of which are present in this piece. But recently, during my Master’s thesis defense, my thesis advisor Ross Gay commented that throughout my manuscript, all my poems seemed to hold a lot of grace. The word “grace” has ever since stayed with me.

I think of Ross who has been on his journey with the word “joy” throughout his work, and I began to consider that concentrated pursuit. What would my word be, if everything was stripped away? “Grace” to me seems like a worthwhile pursuit to examine, to embody, to encourage, to extract within my work. So maybe that’s what I would like readers to take away from the piece, in one word: grace.

This piece is currently situated in a manuscript of mine tentatively entitled “As Boys Do,” which looks at multifaceted notions of masculinity. In exploring this topic, I began to realize how often men desire closeness, yet the confines in which touch, closeness, and vulnerability can be expressed are restricted to perhaps the most hypermasculine and violent/physical spaces—coincidentally enough, like a basketball court. It creates this strange tension, which often acts as grounds for homophobia, or this back and forth between wanting to be close, but not too close. This poem focuses on that tension, even more pressurized with the oppositional relationship between the court and the church when it comes to play, touch, and men’s closeness.

 What fuels your desire to write (or engage in other creative outlets)? Or what have been the biggest influences in your writing? 

I have such a clear memory of the moment as a young child where I felt this giddy sensation from writing and having my work seen. At my elementary school library, the librarian had this laminated display which she rotated each week with a new “poem of the week,” featuring her favorite poets. I remember showing her the first poem I had ever written—an unconventional ode to the skunk, which was my favorite animal at the time. Perhaps I just thought they were cute, or misunderstood. In any case, the next week at the library, there my poem was, displayed at checkout as the official “poem of the week” for all to see. Her act of kindness, so small to her but monumental to me, was the first step on this creative’s path. She showed me that my words had worth and my ideas had value. That sent me down this trajectory, clinging to this encouraged belief that my words mattered. 

On a more internal level, writing has become a medium for me to wrestle with things, to piece together complicated emotions with the often simplicity of living. Within that serious practice, what also fuels my desire to write is this sense of play, of puzzling things together and staying curious. Perhaps there’s something profound about how this wonder and play feels so intrinsically childlike, and how my origins in this craft began in childhood.

I write to remind myself of things that were much more accessible as a child—a deep presence and gratitude for the oftentimes overlooked things in not an oversaturated world, but an overworked one. I write to remind myself to notice what I have been noticing. Writing to me isn’t just a hobby or a career pursuit; it seems like a deeply therapeutic, spiritual, vital practice to my wellbeing, to my capacity for aliveness and all that that means.

 What do you think when you hear, “the good life”? 

This is THE question, isn’t it? When I hear “good life,” to me it is a present life. Can I be present to life’s unfolding? That includes the hard bits, the messy bits, the grief-ridden bits—can I be present to it all and still be able to see the beauty of this strange and wonderful and silly and good life?

When I hear “good life,” I think of my life. It wasn’t always like this. There were many years where I didn’t feel like this life was even worth living. But now, when I hear “good life,” I can just think of my life, how I cannot remember the last day I went without laughing. To me, my good life is how easy it is to laugh with my partner Annalise, how we laugh many times throughout the day until our stomachs ache. In that pang in our ab muscles, in the tears rolling down our cheeks, in the echoing of our laughter, I don’t have to think it—I can feel that this is a good life.

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Thank you, Ezra, for being a part of our growing community and for spending extra time with us on this Q&A. We wish you the best trying EVERYTHING and being at peace with how each of those endeavors turns out. Best also with your writing and manuscript(s).