Christine C. Rivero-Guisinga works for a humanitarian organization. A member of the SEA Lit Circle, her writing has appeared in several publications including Exist Otherwise, Pinhole Poetry, and Seaside Gothic. Her piece in the After Happy Hour Review earned a Pushcart Prize nomination. She shares her travel photos with short poems on Instagram @storyseamstress.

2024 Standard 

Christine C. Rivero-Guisinga works for a humanitarian organisation. A SEA Lit Circle member, she shares short haiku-like poems on Instagram @storyseamstress. Her piece in the After Happy Hour Review earned a Pushcart Prize nomination.

Brief

Christine C. Rivero-Guisinga works for a humanitarian organisation. A SEA Lit Circle member, her work has appeared in several journals including Pinhole Poetry, the After Happy Hour Review, Briefly Write, and The Ex-Puritan. She shares travel photos and micropoems on Instagram @storyseamstress.

2025 Brief

Christine C. Rivero-Guisinga works for a humanitarian organization. A member of the SEA Lit Circle, her writing has appeared in several publications including Pinhole Poetry, the After Happy Hour Review, and The Ex-Puritan. Her piece in Briefly Write was recognized with the publication’s 2024 Poetry Prize. She shares travel photos and micropoems on Instagram @storyseamstress.

2025 Standard

Our stories are crawling, open-clawed,
in another country
where the ground is as soft as the beloved
taking bullets into every piece of them we know.

Everywhere, the Body

Here, I said to my grandmother,

attaching the new house keys

to my grandfather’s pocketknife.

Typhoon Season 

At the water’s edge, the seagulls scatter at my approach. 

Sisters

… She looked out at the world, unchanging, her eyes open but watching for nothing. Above her, the sun shone fixed in the heavens while the moon lay still as a stone at her feet.

The Woman Whose Hair was the Sea

I see myself in the backseat, my parents in the front. They talk; they
do talk, don’t they? They can’t have been quiet the whole ride home…

Back When Our Gas Had Lead and Everything Was in Fact Poison

I am mourning the space dog Laika.
Her happy face was painted in a book I lost.
And she is lost. Her body frozen, floating, forgotten.
They say that nothing, nothing rots in outer space.
She could still be out there now,
circling the stars. 

Space Dog

Centre of Mass

The cabinet doors slide open: a stage —
	
red and blue ceramic mushrooms (they
		don’t dance)
	poodle-head perfume bottle (might dance)
	glass deer chained to her babies (she can’t
		stop to dance)


Child’s Play

What draws us to certain people can be as inexplicable as what parts us from them. Each leave-taking is hollowed out of a lifetime: a glimpse over the shoulder, an instant message never opened, and all the shared spaces in between.

Selected work