Scorched Earth

Poems

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About The Book

2025 National Book Award Finalist

The striking sophomore poetry collection from the award-winning author of the “beautiful, vulnerable, honest” (Ross Gay, New York Times bestselling author) I Can’t Talk About the Trees Without the Blood.


Dive between the borders of ruined and radical love with this lyrical poetry collection that explores topics as expansive as divorce, the first Black Bachelorette, and the art world. Stanzas shift between reverence to irreverence as they take us on a journey through institutional and historical pains alongside sensuality and queer, Black joys.

From a generational voice that “earns a place among the pantheon of such emerging black poets as Eve L. Ewing, Nicole Sealey, and Airea D. Matthews” (Booklist, starred review), Scorched Earth is a transcendent anthology for our times.

Excerpt

Self-Portrait at Divorce

Self-Portrait at Divorce


The day my husband left

I accidentally set off the house alarm

and the dog finally curled into my chest

like a warm croissant of cream fur and you

had replaced the trash bag for the last time

and the recycling and I walked into

your office and I wept and wept inside

your pillow on our bed (whoops) I mean my bed

a California king our biggest bed yet because

we wanted space for our long bodies to stretch

and room for the dog to splay and I put water

in the dog bowl and I told myself that I had to remember

to do that because you had always done that simple task

and you often reminded me to do it when I forgot and I didn’t

want our dog to die of thirst and you left a cup of water

on the end table by the couch we had picked out the year before—

we had just walked into an Ashley furniture store on a Saturday

and sat on the first fake living room set and said this is us

like we knew what we wanted but we did that day (we did)

and it was easy (which was rare for us)—and I put your last cup

of water to my mouth and I guessed where your mouth

might have been on the rim and I pressed my lips to the glass

(I had the nicest lips like two pillows you always said)

and I kissed the cup and poured out the rest of the water

into the sink and it wasn’t an offering to anything and I put

the cup in the dishwasher and I started to tremble and the house

seemed (smelled?) like it was a train but it was just the actual train

that rumbles behind our house (I mean my house)

and you called and told me you went to the hospital

for chest pains and I wasn’t with you at the walk-in clinic

but you said I was still your emergency contact

and I slept on the couch that night because I didn’t want

to sleep in our (I mean) my big bed and I wanted to grovel my way

back to the complacency of us and I wanted to grasp at the stomach

of anyone and I wanted the almost-happy home we had

and I keep walking into each room and staring at the objects

that we bought together remembering fights at Target laughter

at Target splitting up and conquering a to-do list at Target

and those little zapper guns they gave us at Target when we

registered for our wedding gifts and I haven’t showered

in days I have a sourness to me and the lids of my eyes

are swollen like tiny beige water balloons from all the sobbing

and I wanted to end this poem with gladness instead of the sound

of the knife drawer opening and closing opening and closing music

of metals and cabinet wood jingle and the clink of steel blades

and measuring spoons rustling against their edges and contours

and I didn’t harm myself because I did want to harm myself I wanted

to feel the negotiation of pain besides the present pain and I wanted

the body’s paint to come (but I didn’t do it OKAY) I just thought

about it and I think I am proud of myself today for sitting down inside

the empty well of grief and looking up (I always forget to look up)

and I didn’t do it okay I didn’t and I still want joy at the end,

but the day my husband moved out it felt like the first real day

of fall because it was

About The Author

© Adrianne Mathiowetz Photography

Tiana Clark is the author of the poetry collections Scorched EarthI Can’t Talk About the Trees Without the Blood, which won the 2017 Agnes Lynch Starrett Prize; and Equilibrium, which won the 2016 Frost Place Chapbook Competition. Clark’s other honors include a Pushcart Prize, a Kate Tufts Discovery Award, and fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference. She is a graduate of Vanderbilt University and Tennessee State University, where she studied Africana and women’s studies. She is the Grace Hazard Conkling Writer-in-Residence at Smith College. Find out more at TianaClark.com.

Product Details

Raves and Reviews

"An absolutely magnificent collection of poetry. Clark has a really deft hand with poetic forms...the emotional tenor of the poems, the sensual imagery, the voice."
—Roxane Gay, New York Times bestelling author of Bad Feminist and Hunger

“With Scorched Earth, Tiana Clark has sculpted a collection for those who love literature and who wrestle with what it means to love themselves.”
—BookPage

"Writing on the heels of divorce, Clark channels desperation, humor, desire, and anger into themes of race, sex, and relationships .... These are wonderfully intertextual poems bristling with bright intelligence, formal variation, and outlandishly feral longing."
—Booklist

"A collection that rises from the ruins of divorce, Scorched Earth brims with deeply intimate and romantic poems that explore themes relating to Black womanhood, sensuality, and queerness. Clark’s meditations on possibility and hope ring clear and true throughout this stunning, intricate collection."
—Electric Lit Best Poetry Collections of 2025

"To read Scorched Earth is to touch the electric fire of Tiana Clark’s mind—crackling with visceral, wonderfully dangerous poems exploring the feminine erotic, she writes unapologetically about Black womanhood, sexuality, desire, and its mirror world of grief, doubt, and unbelonging. This collection is a celebration of the expanse of Black femininity as its own cosmos of possibility. What a joy to see a poet write so deliciously toward longing, yearning, and ultimately, her own incendiary self."
—Safiya Sinclair, author of How to Say Babylon

"'I still want joy in the end,' Tiana Clark writes in Scorched Earth, her searing, expansive new collection of poems. This book begins with an end—the speaker’s divorce—and the poems unpack what it means to have outlived the life you’d expected to have. 'If my body be a long poem,' Clark writes, 'then I want it to go wherever it needs.' These are poems of black joy, queer love, and radical acceptance of the self. Scorched Earth is a hell of a book."
—Maggie Smith, New York Times bestselling author of You Could Make This Place Beautiful

"I can give three reasons for why Tiana Clark is a great poet. One-her self intimacy is really shocking & strong—& she owns it: “O tiana I want to love you there.” Two-she knows where to stop (i.e. end the poem) she puts her finger on it, and it’s true or it feels true. Ultimately, her poetry is one big safe word. That's three. I never heard it before, it’s crazy gorgeous, and it stops everything."
—Eileen Myles, author of I Must Be Living Twice

"Scorched Earth is quite the title for this stunning volume in which Tiana Clark challenges our notions of just how many times a poem can turn and just how much any poem can hold.  Each page reads as if it is hungry for understanding—of divorce, of Blackness, of the American South, of poetry itself:  'I want to peg/the canon.  So I am running back/and forth between the house of silence/and the house of shame…' Clark’s is an ever evolving voice that we need to hear!"
—Jericho Brown, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of The Tradition

"A formally kaleidoscopic work that oscillates between history, family, friendship, love, and the vexed precarity of modern life, Scorched Earth both challenges and soothes at once. But what I love most about these poems, and in Tiana's poems at large, is the way they name and hold the archive, the barbed histories, the loved ones and the nemeses in our world, with such intelligent tenderness. Here, the ache of lived experience is recast, as it is in our most indelible poems, as sites of wonder and luminosity, where our wounds are—thank god—not merely subjects, but methods."
—Ocean Vuong, author of On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous 

“Tiana Clark’s words met me where I was — equal parts heartache, nostalgia, and ultimately healing. Accessible and lyrical, even when I couldn’t relate to the scope of Clark’s experiences, I still felt like I was offered a chair to sit and witness. The other relevant themes of sexuality and Black joy in this collection had me underlining and dog-earring almost every page.”
—The Southern Bookseller

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