Still, We Are Sacred  is a luminous poetry collection rooted in New York City's ballroom culture and the Nuyorican arts movement, where voice becomes a tool for survival and performance becomes prayer. The book moves through queer coming-of-age, homelessness, and chosen family, tracing how tenderness can be a radical response to a world that demands armor from brown and queer bodies. With unflinching intimacy, the poems hold faith and doubt side by side, refusing to choose between devotion and queerness. Elegy and affirmation intertwine as the speaker blesses survival while naming the weight of grief and loss. Memory, absence, and silence function as living presences, with ghosts shaping what is spoken and what must remain unsaid. The collection confronts religious, cultural, and literary institutions even as it insists on dialogue rather than exile. Softness emerges not as weakness, but as a deliberate, defiant practice of care. Throughout the book, survival is honored as sacred labor rather than simple endurance. The poems balance provocation with compassion, asking readers to sit inside discomfort without abandoning tenderness. By the final page,  Still, We Are Sacred  invites readers to recognize their own resilience, grief, and holiness reflected back to them. "I have been a devotee of Emanuel Xavier's poetry since his legendary debut, Pier Queen , and his 7th and newest collection, Still, We Are Sacred , only strengthened my admiration for his artistry. These poems, ruminant at times with memories and dreams, mournful or sparkling with joy at others, blaze with a poetic force, sharpness and realness that have always been among the hallmarks of Emanuel's poetry. They also possess a truthfulness and intimacy that draw you into the heart of the poet's experiences, never sacrificing humor or an unforgettable turn of phrase, showing how a true literary artist lives, survives and thrives as a brown, queer man in the 21st century." — John Keene , author of Punks "A poem can of course be a confrontation; a provocation; a pastoral ode to the wild turkeys of Staten Island; an address to the recreant father; a lament; a love letter; an assertion of dignity. In Still, We Are Sacred , Emanuel Xavier delivers on all these fronts, and more, with hard-won honesty and rhythmic urgency." — Justin Torres , author of Blackouts and We the Animals "Emanuel Xavier offers a powerful new voice in this collection that explores an identity rooted in fragmentary lineages, mourning, and the everyday euphoria of 'brown hands, queer hearts.' Absences between words, signifying, come to life as ghosts, sharing all their secrets. Still, We Are Sacred blesses us as if goodbye were a greeting, a battle cry, and a sigil." — Roque Raquel Salas Rivera , author of Algarabía "Each poem is a revelation—unearthed, urgent, and unapologetically alive. Emanuel's words celebrate the beauty of being brown, queer, and irreverent. This collection is a lifeline for those who feel buried alive under the weight of machismo, racismo y ellos mismo." — Caridad de la Luz , Executive Director of the Nuyorican Poets Café "The first poem in Still, We Are Sacred puts a shotgun in your mouth and screams "try me" — and then it drops you, and the next poem drops you, and by the time you're finished with this collection you're almost as wounded as the poet; almost because you only understand the poems because Emanuel lets you. These poems are brilliant and masterful. Emanuel's poems embed into you. What do you do/when the island in your heart/turns out to be driftwood? ... [you] float./ [you] murmur./ [you] dare to be soft/& survive." — John Compton , author of house as a cemetery Emanuel Xavier is a queer Latinx poet whose work emerged from New York City's ballroom culture and the Nuyorican arts movement. An unexpected literary voice shaped outside traditional institutions, he writes toward survival, faith, sexuality, and chosen family. He is the author of several poetry collections, including Pier Queen , Americano , If Jesus Were Gay , and Love(ly) Child . He lives in New York City.