There’s a long-standing ritual in poetry publishing, one I never quite managed to believe in. The reverence for “first rights,” the need to trace each poem’s lineage back to the first press that claimed it. The way we imagine poetry as a commodity to be branded, owned, cited—a thing that accrues value from its earliest appearance, as if what matters most is the stamp on its passport.
But poetry has always slipped through those fences, turning up in new places under new names, traveling farther than the people who wrote it could ever follow. I wanted to run a press that felt more like a home than a border crossing, somewhere the doors stayed open, the rules a little less sharp, the focus always on the poem itself—its breath, its light, its stubborn refusal to be contained.
So here’s where we stand. I do not require exclusive rights. I do not ask poets to choose between this press and another, or to stake their future on one uncertain roll of the dice. You are welcome to send your poems into the world, to see where they land, to try every door and window. I am not interested in punishing curiosity or ambition. If another press wants you, I will celebrate from afar. If the poem finds its way here, all the better.
And yet, I also choose not to list the names of other publications who might have “first published” the work. Not because I’m ungrateful, but because I want to read the poem without a badge or a pedigree. I want to read it as itself, not as a token passed from hand to hand, not as a currency whose value is determined by where it spent its earliest days. If another publication insists on being named, I understand; but I won’t play that game. I want to keep this space simple, honest, level.
Because here’s what I know: the urge to credit and catalogue and elevate can so easily become a hierarchy, another ladder for poets to climb, another way to decide whose voice matters more. I want to believe there’s a way around that. I want a poetry world where every poem is seen for what it is, not for where it’s been.
If anything, I hope our stance invites a different kind of sharing—a willingness to let poems move freely, a trust that the work itself will carry its own weight, wherever it travels. I want poets to feel invited, not sorted; welcomed, not weighed down by the burden of past appearances. I want to make room for work that might have wandered, that might have tried and failed elsewhere, that arrives here looking for nothing more than a fair hearing.
I believe that poetry is made for movement, for crossing borders, for showing up in new places with no explanation but its own voice. I want to celebrate the journey, not just the origin story. Every poet who lands here brings with them all the places they’ve been, all the lines and drafts and attempts that didn’t quite fit elsewhere. That’s part of the beauty. That’s what makes this work feel like home.
So, if you’re sending your poems out—send them everywhere, let them run wild, let them gather dust or accolades as they see fit. If one comes home to this press, it will be read as itself, judged for its breath and urgency, not its resume. That feels like the smallest act of rebellion I can offer: to see the poem, and only the poem.
—Rebecca