S. Erin Batiste is an interdisciplinary poet, storyteller, and author of the chapbook Glory to All Fleeting Things. In 2021 this year, she is the recipient of PERIPLUS, Jack Straw Writers, and the dots between fellowships, and is a Writer in Residence at the Helene Wurlitzer Foundation. Her other recent honors include fellowships and support from Cave Canem, Bread Loaf Writers' Conference—Rona Jaffe Foundation, Crosstown Arts, and Callaloo. Batiste is a reader for The Rumpus and her own Pushcart, Best New Poets, and Best of the Net nominated poems are anthologized and appear internationally in You Don't Have to Be Everything: Poems for Girls Becoming Themselves, wildness, and Puerto del Sol among other decorated journals.

Other poems on the web by S. Erin Batiste:
"A Record of Everything I've Outlived:"
"At Trader Joe's in South Pasadena"

S. Erin Batiste's Website.

About Glory to All Fleeting Things:

"It is a marvel how—in such a small volume—Batiste negotiates the breadth and depth of her family's breaths and deaths. These poems obsess themselves with the hard work of memory, wading through a deluge of detail, disappointing and delightful, always moving toward deliverance. Unabashedly honest and honoring her whole truth, Batiste's sharpened language cuts so sweet we hardly recognize the wound. Truly, through the childhood trauma, the astrological self-portraits, the Black family drama, we arrive on the other side whole and healed, reminded of poetry's purpose and, indeed, its glory."
—t'ai freedom ford

"S. Erin Batiste's Glory to All Fleeting Things is ornate, yet seems dusted in a thin film of sand, grit, and glittering silicate. As I read, what persisted was the sense that in Batiste's world, waiting to take so much away, was a desert. And not just the Sonoran. Rather, the greater figure of loss that grinds away at the poet's past, body, and name, seeking to bury what's left under its shifty weight. Thus, despite all that is fleeting, Batiste gives us muchness via recursive series and collage, lists and restless experimentation. '[...It] isn't enough that I'm here...,' she writes, but that she knows one day she'll have herself a grave, and she wants that thing absolutely covered with flowers."
—Douglas Kearney