Saúl Hernández is a queer poet from San Antonio, Texas, raised by formerly undocumented parents. He holds an MFA from the University of Texas at El Paso and is the author of How to Kill a Goat & Other Monsters (University of Wisconsin Press), longlisted for the 2025 PEN Open Book Award and honored by the Texas Institute of Letters. A 2025 NEA Fellow, Saúl has won the Pleiades Prufer Poetry Prize and the Two Sylvias Press Chapbook Prize. His work appears in American Poetry Review, Literary Hub, Poet Lore, The Slowdown, and elsewhere. He is a Macondista and a 2024 Lambda Literary Fellow. @el_saulhernandez
Where were you born and raised? How did it influence your writing and your thinking about the world? I was born and raised in the South Side of San Antonio, TX by former undocumented parents. For me, growing up I was surrounded by a heavy Latinx culture. Weekends meant going to the flea market to flip items for more than what my parents paid for—a lesson in resourcefulness . After a successful sale we’d go to church to give thanks. But alongside these meaningful traditions and lessons, I also came to understand the systemic barriers that shaped my life. We lived in an underserved neighborhood, our income was limited, and healthcare was a luxury we couldn’t afford. Within these constraints, one path remained clear: education would be my way out. In elementary school, my third-grade teacher would give us writing prompts as warm-ups and it is through them that I began my writing. Writing became an escape for me as I began to create stories. My upbringing taught me that limitations are often defined by others—by society, by circumstance. But I’ve also learned that we have the power to reclaim our narratives. Our stories are not dictated by where we begin, but by how we choose to move forward.
Growing up, were you the kind of kid who devoured books? What books made you fall in love with reading as a child? I was raised as a Jehovah’s Witness, and each school year began the same way—my parents would inform my teachers that I was not to participate in classroom celebrations. During those times, I was often sent to the library, alone. What they couldn’t have known was that in that quiet space, surrounded by shelves of books, I would find magic.
It was in the library that I became a voracious reader. By second grade, I had devoured the Magic Tree House series; not long after, I lost myself in the pages of Harry Potter. By fifth grade, I was exploring the complexities of The Giver and Frankenstein. Each book opened a new world, a new way to escape, to imagine, and to dream beyond the confines of my reality.
Books became more than stories—they became lifelines. In them, I found freedom, resilience, and hope. Literature didn’t just entertain me; it sustained me. The worlds I discovered in those pages helped me survive, and ultimately, they shaped the person I am today.
Describe your typical writing day. At the moment, I don’t have a typical writing day—my process unfolds over the course of a week. As a high school teacher and adjunct professor, my time is limited and often fragmented. Throughout the week, I jot down single lines, images, or even just words whenever inspiration strikes. These fragments are like puzzle pieces waiting to be assembled.
On weekdays, I begin stitching them together, shaping them into the beginnings of a poem. Since September 2024, I’ve committed to drafting one poem each week. Despite the demands of my schedule, I’ve maintained this rhythm, and that consistency has been deeply rewarding.
What inspired you to begin working on How to Kill a Goat & Other Monsters? The creative process behind my debut poetry collection, How to Kill a Goat & Other Monsters, is deeply rooted in the landscape of my dreams. I dream often—and vividly. At first, the surreal nature of these dreams unsettled me. But over time, I began to recognize them not as intrusions, but as an archive of imagery and sound that I could draw from.
These dreams became a springboard for my writing, offering images that ripple across the collection. One recurring motif is water. In the collection, water becomes more than a symbol; it embodies both rebirth and terror, holding space for transformation, memory, and the unknown. By leaning into the surreal, I found a language for my fears, my questions, and my lineage.
What kind of fragments or thoughts do you record in your personal journal? I do my best to keep a dream journal, though I’ve found it challenging to maintain a consistent journaling practice. These days, I rely more heavily on my phone. The Notes app on my iPhone has become my go-to space for capturing images, sounds, and fragments of dreams as they come to me. It’s accessible, always within reach, and far more practical than carrying a physical journal.
How do you research and what role does research play in your writing? Research plays a vital role in the development of my work. Whether I’m uncovering historical context, exploring the background of a specific place, or gathering factual details, research serves as both foundation and entry point. I weave it organically throughout my writing, using it to ground the reader before moving into the more imaginative or surreal elements of my poems. This interplay between the factual and the fantastical allows me to create work that feels both rooted and expansive—anchored in reality, yet open to transformation.
Which writer, living or dead, would you most like to have dinner with? I’d love to have met Toni Morrison. To sit in a table with her and share a meal, I feel, would be life changing.
Are there creative forms beyond writing that influence how you think or work? I believe artists are always in conversation—with one another, across time, and through various mediums. For me, sustaining these dialogues is essential; they push the boundaries of my own thinking and creative practice. During a recent visit to The Broad Museum in Los Angeles, while attending AWP, I experienced Yayoi Kusama’s Infinity Room. Stepping into that space was transformative. Since then, I’ve been meditating on the relationship between infinity and reflection—questioning whether something truly continues forever, or if what appears infinite is merely an ongoing transformation, a mirrored echo of what came before. These kinds of artistic encounters stay with me, subtly shaping the questions I bring into my writing.
AI and technology are changing the ways we write and receive stories. What are your reflections on AI, technology and the future of storytelling? And why is it important that humans remain at the center of the creative process? The world is advancing at a high pace and unfortunately not all technology is good. I personally have so many strong opinions against using AI, mainly because as an educator I see students use it and integrate it into their own responses. AI is taking away not only the creativity aspect from students but also their will to finish an assignment or their potential to be storytellers. I don’t know what is in store for the future with AI but I believe one thing we can all do is to begin having conversations of what AI is and the harm it can cause when it comes to writing in any genre or mode.
What books do you credit with changing your perspective?
I have many favorite books that I turn to time and time again such as Everything Begins and Ends in the Kentucky Club by Benjamin Alire Sáenz, The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver, I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter by Erika L. Sanchez, The Crane Wife by CJ Hauser, The Kissing Bug by Daisy Hernandez, With My Back to the World & Obit by Victoria Chang, Black Pastoral by Ariana Benson, Girl's Guide to Leaving by Laura Villareal, Slow Lightning by Eduardo C. Corral, Blood Dazzler by Patricia Smith, Ghost of by Diana Khoi Nguyen, amongst others. Whether it be how to incorporate research into my writing or how to zoom in and out of images—each of these books has taught me something about my writing and about myself.
Exploring literature, the arts, and the creative process allows me to connect deeply with others. I believe our stories—no matter how different—carry the potential to resonate across boundaries. For me, storytelling is not just personal; it’s communal. Sharing my experiences is essential, especially because I rarely saw myself reflected in the narratives I encountered growing up. It wasn’t until my undergraduate studies that I finally read stories that spoke to my own identity and upbringing.
This absence raises a critical question: if we grow up in a world where only certain stories are told, are we truly being inclusive, or are we simply reinforcing the narratives society has deemed worthy? As both an educator and a writer, I am committed to challenging that imbalance. I work to ensure that all voices—especially those often overlooked—are heard, valued, and given space to thrive.
