Staff Spotlight

Annie Wenstrup

Annie Wen­strup is a Dena’ina poet. Her work recent­ly appeared in About Place, Diode, Ecotone, The New England Review, Poetry, and Ran Off with the Star Bassoon and is forth­com­ing in Poets & Writers, and The Kenyon Review. Her poetry col­lec­tion, The Museum of Unnat­ur­al His­to­ries, is forth­com­ing from Wes­leyan Uni­ver­si­ty Press (March 2025). You can read more about Annie and her work at www.akwenstrup.com 

 

 

What do you write?

 

Poems and essays. Lately I’ve been writing essays about Alaska. I’m orig­i­nal­ly from Anchor­age but I’ve spent the last 17 years in Fair­banks. I have a lot of ques­tions about what it means to live here. What would a rec­i­p­ro­cal rela­tion­ship with the more-than-human-world look like here? What are my respon­si­bil­i­ties to the com­mu­ni­ties I belong to? 

 

My poetry uses form—nonce and received—to explore how expe­ri­ences of embod­i­ment. The ques­tions I bring to poetry are more neb­u­lous than what I bring to prose. What shape would this expe­ri­ence make on the page? What kind of con­so­nance or pat­tern­ing echoes this emo­tion­al tenor? 

 

 

Is there an author or artist who has most pro­found­ly influ­enced your work?

 

My thesis began as a col­lec­tion of ekphras­tic poems. I have a hard time sitting down to an empty page and believ­ing that I can write a first draft of a poem. It’s a hor­ri­bly uncom­fort­able expe­ri­ence. But engag­ing with art removes that barrier, because the ekphras­tic poem con­tin­ues a con­ver­sa­tion that another artist has already begun. So, it feels a little less like approach­ing a blank page. Recent­ly I’ve been car­ry­ing images by the artists Sarah Whalen Lunn, Flo­rence Napaaq Male­wotkuk, and Susie Bevins close to my heart while I work. 

 

 

Why did you choose Stonecoast for your MFA?

 

I was ini­tial­ly attract­ed to Stonecoast because of its excel­lent poetry faculty and the WISE program. But what decided it for me was a con­ver­sa­tion I had with Justin about the incom­ing poetry cohort. He was so excited about the incom­ing class. He spoke about his hopes for how each poet’s strengths would com­ple­ment the cohort as whole. I knew I wanted to be in an envi­ron­ment that valued com­mu­ni­ty over competition. 

 

 

What is your favorite Stonecoast memory?

 

During the summer 2021 res­i­den­cy, Cate Marvin taught “Trauma vs. Trans­gres­sion” which exam­ined the rela­tion­ship between con­fes­sion­al poetry and white suprema­cy culture. I had one true “aha” moment in that class that clar­i­fied what I wanted to explore in my man­u­script. The course also pro­vid­ed me with insight into how white suprema­cy culture shapes my life. 

 

 

What do you hope to accom­plish in the future?

 

I’m excited about my role as Alumni and Donor Rela­tions Coor­di­na­tor at Indige­nous Nations Poets. We’re a nation­al orga­ni­za­tion that pro­vides men­tor­ship to emerg­ing Native writers. I was an In-Na-Po Fellow during my final semes­ter at Stonecoast and the Fel­low­ship helped with the post-grad­u­a­tion tran­si­tion. My goal is to ensure that other emerg­ing Indige­nous Poets have access to lit­er­ary spaces that support tribal, cul­tur­al, and lin­guis­tic sovereignty. 

 

 

If you could have written one book, story, or poem that already exists, which would you choose?

 

The Monster at the End of This Book by Jon Stone.

 

The fol­low­ing poem first appeared in Poetry North­west, Summer & Fall 2021.

“My Heart is a Rube Gold­berg Machine” 

by Annie Wenstrup


My Heart is a Rube Goldberg Machine

It looks like an alcove, a nave, a maze of pneu­mat­ic tubes. 

Drive through banking. It exchanges blue notes for red. 

It’s famous. I’ve seen it on screen,

repro­duced in grainy black and white. 

It’s how I’ve met every­one important. 

We—the sono­g­ra­ph­er, my husband and I—

sounded out my son, later my daughter

this way. We bounced waves off 

their tadpole bodies and ren­dered them

into pixels.

When I see my heart, its ascending

and descend­ing aortas, left and right

pul­monary veins and arter­ies, I smell

dis­in­fec­tant. The ether assaults my nose

and I remem­ber my first roommate. 

I think of how she whis­pered that she

was des­per­ate to feel any­thing, and she’d

snort any­thing. Hoping for pleasure. 

Set­tling for pain. 

When we met, her heart was a with­ered fist                         pound­ing odd tempos at odd hours. 

She said it was like having a cranky neigh­bor that pounded a broom when­ev­er you vac­u­umed. We never vac­u­umed                                                            so I never found out if that was true. 

I think vacuums work

by inhal­ing air through 

a pneu­mat­ic tube,

exchang­ing air 

for more air. 

And when I think about air

and how it doesn’t look like anything

at all, I remem­ber how odd it was

to have so much of it—

enough to yell, later enough to cry, when she had none at all.

© 2024 Stonecoast Review. Indi­vid­ual copy­rights held by contributors.

The Stonecoast Review is the lit­er­ary journal of the Stonecoast MFA at the Uni­ver­si­ty of South­ern Maine.