In Sarah Fawn Montgomery’s new collection of lyric essays, Abbreviate, readers are treated to the captivating beauty of her narrative work and the haunting vulnerability that comes with it. In just nineteen essays, she shares reflections and revelations, transporting us into the critical moments that have shaped her life and, in turn, mirror the experiences of so many women. Her language is both delicate and powerful, a reference to the feminine. At the same time, the unsettling and sometimes horrifying nature of her subjects—pain, loss, identity, womanhood—is skillfully woven together, creating a tapestry of beauty, nostalgia, and truth that lingers long after the final page.
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Amy Kennedy’s Vanishing Points is like the dictionary every person needs on their bookshelf. For such a small print, every page packs a punch while equipping its readers with the knowledge and terminology to discuss and evaluate the climate crisis in a whole new light. A collection of micro essays, Kennedy's Vanishing Points takes the shape of an ecological dictionary that ranges from actual terms such as biosphere, confirmation bias, and greenhouse effect to concepts like boomtown and climate doom. It’s a six by six powerhouse collection that gives concept after concept without much room to breathe. Kennedy’s motivation seems to be: We can only fight against something once we learn the language to destroy it.
The past can fill the soul with sweet nostalgia, but it can also fill the mind with memories it would rather forget. Alison Hicks’ latest poetry collection, Homing, is a treasure trove of recollections brimming with the brightness of childhood, the solitude of being an outsider, and the beauty of creation in all forms. Through natural and man-made environmental themes, Hicks soars across planes of joy, loneliness, and womanhood by constructing scenes that not only help readers ponder the mysteries of our habitats, but also the mysteries within ourselves.
“Fugitive essays”—the subtitle of Roger Reeves’ essay collection Dark Days—exists as a diminutive outlier on the book’s abstract orange and black cover. Positioned out at the margin, its small font rises vertically as if insisting, by its obvious contrast to the bold and horizontal title that reigns next to it, to have its insinuations considered. I think about the meaning of the word fugitive and I am immediately bombarded by the typical connotations that leach from its letters, connotations that are all derivatives of criminality. But it is by design that the reader’s considerations are provoked with such patterns of common thought, for the directive of this book is to purposely present and then subsequently eschew these typical conventions so that new and enlightening definitions are granted residency.
It’s an interesting experience, being a Black woman. Traversing this world born as two marginalized identities, not receiving support from either at the same time. When standing up for ourselves we are painted as aggressive, too passionate, perpetually angry, the villain. The experiences of being a woman differ globally but there seems to be a consensus that being a woman entails some sort of suffering at the hands of patriarchal society. At least that’s how it is explored within white women’s spaces. Albeit true, when Black women come into these spaces to impart their own experiences being a woman coupled with being Black, suddenly we are shunned. Suddenly we don’t know what it’s like to be a woman because we are Black. What they refuse to realize is that our womanly experience is unique. It’s beautiful, it's painful, it’s joyous, it breeds community. This is explored within Angelique Zobitz’s poetry book Seraphim.
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