I may be accused of bias, because Jamaica Baldwin is my colleague, but look, it’s not my fault that I have brilliant colleagues.
This is a deeply personal book of poetry, not by being at all prurient or sensationalistic, but by pressing — gently, but insistently — on spots that are tender, difficult. But in a way that is thoughtful, and (I’m grappling for the right word) — settled? These are poems that know things. Even in the midst of chaos — “The world is turning in the wrong direction” — there are things that are plain: “I am not what anyone thinks I am.” “This is a true thing.”
They have desires, even demands, these poems, and they frequently ask questions, but they are fundamentally works of recognition. I almost said, taking stock, but that’s not right. The process doesn’t feel methodical, or exacting, but rather like a moment of unexpected clarity amidst confusion — a handhold in a tricky ascent.
Kasia Reads 