Tiffany Morris

Oct 30, 2024 | full-stop.net | Tiffany Morris |Jessica Johns

This interview was guest-edited by Gillian Joseph as part of their Full Stop Editorial Fellowship project, Reclaiming Horror. The first installment, an essay by Hana Pera Aoake, can be found here. The final installment will be published tomorrow. Editor’s NoteI’m thrilled to introduce the third part of the Reclaiming Horror series: a discussion between authors Tiffany Morris and Jessica Johns that delves into ecohorror, climate grief, and Indigenous relationships to land and horror.

Sep 10, 2024 | muskratmagazine.com | Shannon Webb-Campbell |Racine Bebamikawe |Tiffany Morris

Jeffrey Gibson’s ‘the space in which to place me’ This year’s 60th annual Venice Art Biennale marked the first-ever solo exhibition of an Indigenous artist from Turtle Island. Jeffrey Gibson, a member of the Mississippi Band of Choctaw Indians and of Cherokee descent, transformed the American pavilion with his unabashed array of colours. Curated by Kat...

Jul 25, 2024 | muskratmagazine.com | Tiffany Morris

Our stories are written and reflected in our bodies. Our DNA, our memories, and our somatic experiences are a setting as vital as the external world through which we navigate. In Cree poet Dallas Hunt’s second collection Teeth, the titular body parts are pieces of autobiography that erupt from those places of culture, politics, and land.

Mar 8, 2024 | muskratmagazine.com | Tiffany Morris

In my hands I held centuries. When I was visiting the Nova Scotia Archives in Wikumkewiku’s September 2023, I looked over treaty documents under the helpful, watchful gaze of the archivists who worked there. The faded signatures of the 18th century Peace and Friendship Treaties were illuminated by warm lights on the paper-thin hide. As an L’nu’skw—Mi’kmaw woman—my understanding of treaty has always been tied to land, to ancestors, to the shape of relationships in Mi’kma’ki.

Feb 9, 2023 | apparitionlit.com | Tiffany Morris

What web captures shadow? I dream the dead and theydream mein the clean linen of longing,the tear of a marital sheet,the burial shroud of hours,and the pain of return. A spirit appears and disappearsat my house, in faces in thewood-knots,hands outstretchedin doorways. The tap spits hairand unspools thread. Stitched-shutmouths sing melodiousin another room. The forest bleeds against thewindow: my voice—our voicesare a burning smoke in the leaves.