Hayden's Ferry Review


A Review of Dustin Pearson's Millennial Roost

Millennial Roost by Dustin Pearson
Eyewear Publishing
March 1, 2018

In Millennial Roost, Dustin Pearson excavates childhood sexual abuse through the urgent voice of his male speaker, who maps out his source of hurt and secrecy and shows us the wide-reaching effects of holding trauma close.

The poems in this incredible debut collection are unwavering in their honesty. The series of epistles especially stands out: it is through these epistles that the speaker directly addresses his childhood abuser, whom he calls Mr. Hen. The choice of putting a name to his abuser, the source of trauma, is an important one. It enables the speaker to remember, reimagine, disclose, and question, even if Mr. Hen cannot answer. The speaker refuses to let his experiences remain “locked up and archived” and instead bares his memories for us on the page, forcing us to look closely when we might look away.

As we learn more about Mr. Hen and the abuse that the speaker has endured, we also learn facts about chickens: their anatomy and lack of autonomy, the violence done to their bodies, different ways to prepare and consume them. We learn: “scientists suggest that hairs / on the human body are merely / modified scales or feathers.” We learn that the speaker has a reoccurring dream in which he grows wings and begins to resemble Mr. Hen: “the stray shreds / of my self are everywhere, and when the debris clears, / I look exactly like you.” The line between human and chicken is increasingly blurred. The speaker feels reduced to his trauma and finds it difficult to separate himself from his abuser and the abuse, the thing that happened to him and intimately belongs to him.

In his nonlinear recollections, the speaker attempts to understand his shame as well as to reclaim it in hopes of changing the past. As he tells us in one poem, “I would start from the begin- / ning, tell them about you and do my best to give them an / ending. For whatever reason, I thought that would make / it better…” Through the act of retelling, the speaker searches for a new ending that he creates and controls because, after all, people are “made by what they remember.”

But a new ending also means a new beginning. Or, perhaps, new possibilities. The speaker asks, “what happened to me? / what could I have been? / and where did I go from here?” These questions hinge on more questions, including: How to be intimate after bodily trauma? What forms of intimacy are no longer viable without some form of reconciliation? In considering these questions, Pearson gives his speaker the space to be truly vulnerable and thus establishes a sense of intimacy between speaker and reader that makes this an incredible first book – one that is hard to put down.

For the speaker, the biggest potential and therefore the greatest risk does not just lie in disclosing past abuse but in allowing himself to feel intimacy, especially now that he views his body as an object capable of physiological reactions but not of romance. Not of love. We see the speaker in physically and emotionally vulnerable and therefore threatening encounters several times in the collection. In one memory, another man asks if he can kiss the speaker, insisting “I didn’t say have sex...” but the speaker asks, “how is what he proposes any different?” Both kissing and sex are equally, alarmingly intimate.

Other close encounters come in the sharing of secrets. In a poem titled “Camaraderie,” we learn that the speaker has always hated divulging secrets because it is a cheap source of bonding. And yet much later, in a bar, the speaker and two others tell of the men “that had us, left us, that / never leave us.” When it seems that there are no words left, the three summon more, rub them “on each other’s faces, / absorbing them, / healing or beginning to.” It is in speaking that healing might begin. It is in sharing that we might open up the possibility of feeling close.

In one poem near the close of the collection, the speaker dreams he is in love. He dreams that he has sex with his lover. “I like to imagine myself that close,” he says, “And I didn’t feel scared / or guilty about it. Those are the possibilities.” At one point, he also claims that he was “lucky.” Lucky because it was not worse? Because we suffer our trauma and then consider ourselves lucky for having endured? “I survive you,” the speaker tells his abuser and us.

Millennial Roost is a fantastic debut collection. The poems are heartbreaking and generous in what they are willing to reveal.

Intimacy. Trust. Those are the possibilities, the risks. I survive you.


Dustin Pearson is a McKnight Doctoral Fellow in Creative Writing at Florida State University. The recipient of fellowships from Cave Canem and the Virginia G. Piper Center for Creative Writing, Pearson has served as the editor of Hayden’s Ferry Review and a Director of the Clemson Literary Festival. He won the Academy of American Poets Katharine C. Turner Prize and holds an MFA from Arizona State University. His work appears in BlackbirdVinyl PoetryBennington Review, and elsewhere. Millennial Roost is his first book.

Susan Nguyen hails from Virginia but currently lives and writes in the desert. She is the poetry editor for Hayden's Ferry Review. She is the recipient of several fellowships from the Virginia G. Piper Center for Creative Writing and the Aleida Rodriguez Memorial Award in Creative Writing Her work can be found in PANK, diode, The Rumpus, and elsewhere. She was recently named one of "three women poets to watch in 2018" by PBS NewsHour.Visit her at www.girlpoet.co

Haydens Ferry
Parallel Worlds, an interview with Katie Cortese

On a sunny Spring afternoon in Phoenix, Katie Cortese , an ASU alumna, visited campus this spring to read from her short story collection, Make Way For Her and Other Stories. Before the reading, our intern Tonissa Saul had a chance to sit down with her and talk about her work. Over a bowl of prickly pear sherbet, they discussed finding the time to write, character perspective, and pizza parties.


On her work


TS: The story Lemonade is beautiful. What was the inspiration for it and what made you use the temporary aspect of a film shooting in parallel to the stages of Alzheimer’s?


KC: That wasn’t deliberate until I started writing it. The repetition of shooting scenes over and over and the way the actors have to pretend like it’s new every time lends itself to the way the mom is seeing everything new all the time as her memory goes and the daughter is reliving all of these moments and pretending they are new for her mom’s sake.


TS: The women in your stories cover a large gamut of knowledge and experience. There’s The women in Lemonade who are in later adulthood, Maya in Flightplan who is in her early twenties, and Lili from The First, Necessary Heartbreak who is sixteen to name a few. Regardless of age, none of the stories stand out as targeting an audience, for example, Lili’s story is not a targeted YA story. What compels you to write these stories from such a wide berth of experiences?


KC: I have always written from the young girl’s perspective, it’s something about the way they are often dismissed that draws me to that age. It’s starting to change with things like the students from Parkland and things like Twitter where everyone’s voice is amplified. I don’t think girls think of themselves as limited but they are often dismissed.


It’s harder to write about women my age because sometimes I still don’t feel like an adult, you know? It’s always better to write about places after I’ve left instead of while I’m there. The distance lends itself to the voice.


TS: I see that you have had poetry published in [PANK] and The Prose Poetry Project. What draws you to each medium? Are there any plans for releasing a poetry collection?


KC: Most of the poems I’ve written are on the cusp of prose poetry. In grad school wrote more poetry but I haven’t written in that mode for a while. I’m still writing flash fiction which is similar to prose poetry. I’ve been revising a novel that was intended for a YA audience but probably should be for adults. It’s hard to work on a story and a novel at the same time but I can write flash and get through that quicker.


If something’s bothering me, I will usually put that in an essay. I don’t like to write stories from a concept but I’m sure it comes out anyway. It’s dangerous for me to look that in the face while I’m writing it. My favorite essays are when you can see the writer’s minds working. It makes you feel like you’re having a conversation.


On Democracy


TS: Can you talk about the Write Our Democracy event and how that came about?


KC: The idea for Write Our Democracy came from Erin Belieu out of Florida State. I loved it and wanted to participate. An event was initially planned for inauguration day to give people a voice.


At Texas Tech we didn’t talk about the current administration. We just talked about groups that needed a bigger voice to talk about issues like immigration and police brutality. Dima Alhesan was a part of the No Ban, No Wall protest. She was at the Write Our Democracy event to read. Dennis Covington was there to read. He was involved in  the conflict in Syria. His book is called Revelation: A Search for Faith in a Violent Religious World. He came and talked about places with disputed borders, like in Juarez where society is in turmoil and our government’s willingness to jump into certain conflicts but not others. Sara Viren, who teaches at ASU downtown, had given birth to a girl just before the election and read work about being a mother in this troubled world. We had tables where people could register to vote. We had a women’s studies table. We also raised money for ACLU. This was a forum for people to come together and talk about their fears. There were ninety events simultaneously on the same day.


On Iron Horse


TS: You’re the fiction editor at Iron Horse Literary Review which releases an incredible 6 issues annually. How do you balance that work load with your teaching and writing?


KC: The six issues are all different. Four are in print, two are online. For the online issues, one is the trifecta (a long story, a long poem, and a long essay) and the other is a photo finish where they post a photo and people have to write a flash fiction piece about the photo.


For the four print issues, the submission windows are pretty staggered. One is all poetry. The MFA students read the first wave, and I’ll make the selections out of that pool. It basically runs on the academic schedule. That leaves me time to write in the summer, on breaks, or at night after my son goes to sleep. I’m also part of a women’s faculty writing group. We meet once a week. I save those three hours, and sometimes that’s the only time that week that I get to write.


TS: What is the Lit Mag Madness competition and how did it feel when Iron Horse won this year?


KC: We haven’t won the whole thing yet. We won the sweet sixteen. Currently we’re in the elite eight. The contest is modeled on the March Madness. The lit mag attached to a school who is in March Madness got in the bracket. At first we just thought it was kind of fun. Then everyone got into it. We asked the students at the English minors fair to vote for us. English professors were asking their students to vote. I was teaching a class when the competition bracket was ending and asked my class to vote. We checked at the end of class and we won. We were so excited. Unfortunately, the basketball team is out but we are forging on. I don’t know what’s in it other than glory. We’re going to have a pizza party.




Katie Cortese is the author of Make Way for Her and Other Stories (University Press of Kentucky, 2018) and Girl Power and Other Short-Short Stories (ELJ Publications, 2015). She teaches in the creative writing program at Texas Tech University where she serves as the fiction editor for Iron Horse Literary Review.

Tonissa Saul is a writer from Arizona and an intern with Hayden’s Ferry Review. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Write On Downtown, The Comstock Review and the anthology Miles to Go, Promises to Keep Volume II. Additionally, her art has appeared on the cover of Rinky Dink Micro Poetry.

Haydens Ferry
Poet Roy Guzmán talks Letras Latinas and forthcoming project with Carolina Marques de Mesquita

Roy Guzmán, a queer Honduran-born poet, visited Arizona State University as a Letras Latinas Scholar during the Desert Nights, Rising Stars (DNRS) conference in March 2018, where they agreed to discuss their 2016 chapbook Restored Mural for Orlando, and their forthcoming project with Graywolf Press as well as Letras Latinas (LL).

Our intern, Carolina Marques de Mesquita, met Roy at a DNRS luncheon honoring Letras Latinas, which is based out of the University of Notre Dame and supports the work of emerging Latinx poets and writers.

Authors affiliated with Letras Latinas explore the complex and multifaceted nature of the Latinx experience through poetry, journalism, and essays. Above all, Letras Latinas generates community and solidarity among Latinx writers and readers. The LL blog features interviews with Latinx authors and reviews of Latinx literature. It frequently explores issues of immigration, borders, identity, and language, and celebrates the literary and artistic contributions of the Latinx community.

Roy also discusses the challenges of invoking intersectionality in their work, how they transition between the worlds of literature and academia, and the significance of employing Spanglish in their poetry.

Carolina Marques de Mesquita (CM): To begin, could you give some background on what Letras Latinas is, what their mission is, and how they’ve supported your work?

Roy Guzmán (RG): Letras Latinas is an initiative that comes out of University of Notre Dame. It’s been spearheaded by Francisco Aragón, and he is a Nicaraguan-American poet who has done a lot of work for fellow writers of color, specifically Latinx poets, Latinx writers. Back in 2016, he chose me in Minnesota, two students at Notre Dame, and then there were about 4 students here [at Arizona State University], people who were basically in the middle of their creative writing MFA program, to essentially talk about cultural issues and what it’s like to navigate these very white spaces with our stories. In 2016 I was here for this conference [Desert Nights, Rising Stars], and I got to meet many different writers and also from Notre Dame, and those connections have continued on. I speak to a couple of them consistently. I was invited to come this year with Emma Trelles as part of the Letras Latinas Scholars; we’re basically the first Scholars under this new initiative.

CM: It’s interesting that you talk about how this initiative brings together writers who are talking about navigating these white spaces. A lot of your work deals with what it’s like to be not only Latinx, but also queer, and I’m wondering if you’ve found in your own life or in your writing that one of these identities, depending on the context, becomes more salient than the other. How do you navigate that in your work or in your life?

RG: Absolutely. I think that’s a great question. As someone who identifies as queer, Latinx, from a very poor background, [from] Miami, immigrant, from Honduras, bilingual, there’s all these different identities that I constantly—I don’t think I let them reconcile as much as I let them exist at the same time, and that’s something that I talk about with some writers, about [those] intersections—especially when you get published in a queer-specific journal, for instance, how do you, at the same time that you’re essentially claiming this queer identity, how do you also remind people that that identity is intersecting with brownness? It’s intersecting with bilingualness. That’s something that unfortunately in the U.S. does not get to exist simultaneously. Either people want you to wave the immigrant flag and that’s it, or wave the student flag, or wave the poet flag, and a lot of institutions prevent people from having all these different identities coexist. And for me it’s like, because I exist, I exist already within all these different identities.

CM: About a year and a half ago you published the chapbook Restored Mural for Orlando, and it seems like that work really attempted to synthesize these experiences into one as opposed to making [the Pulse shooting] an LGBT issue or a Latinx issue. What prompted you to take on this work, and why was it important to you?

RG: So this was right after the Pulse massacre, and there’s two friends I have who were directly affected by this shooting— they had two friends die at the club. And I think for me, at the very beginning, I was just in shock. Coming from South Florida, Orlando was such a magical place for many of us. So, the very beginning, of course I’m in shock. I’m in disbelief, and then what was happening was that I was noticing that a lot of white writers, cis writers, were publishing their poems reacting to the massacre and I wasn’t seeing anything by brown folks. And I’m like, “this is ridiculous.” Why is it that white people get to talk about a tragedy that really . . . is not targeting them? Just because you’re queer, that doesn’t mean you have to come into that space to try and put up a fire; you have to make room for other people first, if that’s not your community. I went through all these different phases, and I got to a point where I was angry. I was angry that brown voices, black voices were not being lifted. So I ended up writing this poem. I didn’t think I was going to write a poem. In the beginning my first reaction was, “Roy, you’re not going to write anything about this, because you need to take care of yourself, you need to take care of your people.” And then, the more angry I got, the more I started writing.

I put this chapbook together with one of my best friends, D. Allen. I graduated with them from the same program, the creative writing program in Minnesota, and we got a translator, Marco Antonio Huerta, who came from California, and then we just sort of got together, put this together, and I think we raised over 2000 dollars putting this together. We got some donations for the printing of the chapbook, and D. Allen is a bookmaker by training and by degree.

Natalie Diaz was talking about this last night—I don’t know if you went to her speech last night—but she was talking about how anger is so important, and I think it was very much sort of what triggered a lot of this work. When I was writing the Orlando poem, I was thinking “What’s gonna be my angle coming into this material?” It can’t just be me coming in there and saying, this is just in honor of the victims. I have to be very clear about what my positionality is in this material. So as I started reflecting, I was thinking about the times that I’d been there, how my family’s connected to that, how I grew up in the club scene as a very young person in South Florida, so a lot of these intersections came together. The fact that I was in Minnesota when this happened was also very disorienting, and the weekend prior to the tragedy, I had gone to a gay club for the first time in a while. I needed to write this as a way to contend with not just the tragedy, but what this meant for me and the people around me and how we move forward.

CM: Has your response to any of the discourses surrounding this event—gun violence, or anti-LGBT, anti-immigrant, anti-brown violence—changed since the publication of this chapbook?

RG: Well, I think that’s a very good question in that I think after the chapbook went out I was reminded that I needed to get this PhD, that the PhD was something I needed in order to not just talk about these issues from a creative sense, but also be informed about coalitions, about what solidarity looks like, about intersectional violence, and what that looks like too. So it changed the way I operate.

That summer, in 2016, I was on a fellowship dealing with migrant farm workers, so I was already working with these issues affecting different communities who are very vulnerable, whose rights are constantly being challenged, so a lot of that was working at the same time.

There’s this series called Queerodactyl, that’s in my book, and some of those poems begin at the beginning of that year, 2016, so, I think there was this concoction of different materials and different issues that I needed to kind of study, think about, elaborate upon.

But it has changed, and I think that it’s really interesting. Even though I wrote that poem after the Orlando tragedy, and I’ve given several interviews about the making of the chapbook, the results of the chapbook, when it comes to this gun violence, I notice that not a lot of people bring up my poem. I often think that it’s because, you know, why bring up my poem, when so many white writers have written about some gun violence, and so those are the poems that get shared, that get publicity, even though my poem very much deals with that kind of violence. What does it mean for someone to come into a space and just completely dismantle the safety of that space, if there was even any safety to begin with?

Everything is political, so I navigate these tensions, and I know why and when and where the Orlando poem gets shared, and in [the midst of] this sort of gun violence, I’m surprised that no one has talked about this poem.

CM: You make several references to pop culture icons in “Queerodactyl.” You mention Farah Fawcett, Jane Fonda, I think I spotted a Pokémon reference, and Selena. I was really interested in what significance these references have for the message you were trying to communicate in that series.

RG: I think that there’s an element of campiness to these poems. There’s an element of, a celebration of, feminism, a celebration of femininity, definitely a celebration of challenging [the] patriarchy. And I think that, especially with something like Pokémon, there’s so many queer writers and queer people who grew up with Pokémon. Selena is such a queer icon, [as are] Farah Fawcett and Jane Fonda. A lot of the work in that series deals with things like that. There’s a lot of vogueing that happens in the poems; there’s references to highbrow and lowbrow culture. And I think that that’s very much emblematic of who I am, that I love switching gears all the time.

Let’s talk about philosophy; let’s also talk about Lil’ Kim; and let’s talk about 80s pop music. I love all of those things. My boyfriend recently had his 30th birthday, and it was a Real Housewives-themed birthday. I helped him organize it, and it was really interesting, because a lot of what we were looking at and what we were thinking about when we were putting this party together was not celebrating posh culture or celebrating wealth, it was basically looking at how when you think about queerness, and when you think about belonging, so many of us grew up with TV culture, with radio culture. So these models and magazines, like Vogue, these are people that we aspire to look like and be like.

CM: I found that your poems were so accessible because, for example, these pop culture references made the more abstract things that you were trying to communicate more real.

RG: Yeah, and that’s what I am looking for – I’m looking for connection, I’m looking for, even like, even just ephemeral communities. Mary Jo Bang, an amazing poet, she did a translation of Dante’s Inferno, and in it she takes all of these figures that were contemporaries to Dante, and she switches them and replaces them with Cartman from South Park and all of these different characters that are now in hell. I love that because I think that knowledge—in order for knowledge to continue to exist and have a heartbeat, it needs to also respond to current times, whatever that means.

CM: Your degree is in cultural studies. How do you transition between the world of academia and the world of literature? You talked a bit about how these issues are always political, but I’m wondering how you navigate two fields with very different expectations on how to respond to those politics.

RG: I think one of the things that has been very clear for me is knowing that different disciplines operate with different languages. I think you’re absolutely right that it can be jarring, going from one space to the other. I did my undergrad in comparative literature and I have an MA in comparative literature. So this program is in cultural studies and comparative literature but my emphasis, my focus, is on cultural studies.

What compelled me to go to this PhD is that it’s very much interdisciplinary. The way that the program defines itself is that it could be—not just interdisciplinary, but it could be anti-discipline, so it does challenge what we think of as genre or discipline. I have found very, very good people, one of the people that I’m working with is very knowledgeable in poetry and Marx[ist] thinking—so that has been very useful to me in terms of thinking about Marx, thinking about resistance, thinking about creating new visions, new temporalities, thinking about [for instance] if we are to think about sustainability, what that looks like for different communities.

This program at University of Minnesota has given me a lot to think about so far. It’s my first year, but the program is very much something like American studies. I’ve already taken classes in women, gender, and sexuality; Chicanx/Latinx studies—. All these programs and disciplines that are very interdisciplinary, to me, speak not only on a creative level but definitely in an academic sense.

CM: Can you tell me about your book, a collection of poems forthcoming from Graywolf Press? Can you tell me what your goals were with this book, and maybe what you hope readers will take away from it?

RG: I’m still in disbelief that this is happening. It’s coming out at the very beginning of 2020, and Graywolf is based out of Minneapolis, so I feel very lucky that I’m working with a local press who has basically been putting out some of the most forward-thinking texts [such as those] from Claudia Rankine, or Maggie Nelson. I feel very blessed in that sense.

The collection itself is definitely looking at my Honduran identiy vis-à-vis migration. There’s a poem in the book that was published in Superstition Review here at ASU, and I think that that’s one of those poems that very much speaks to a lot of what happens in the collection. [It’s] very personal, dealing with public issues. There’s the threat of the Queerodactyl, these poems that pop out of different places—. Even what’s happening in that series, there’s a lot of mobility and flux happening in them. A lot of the poems are very personal, they’re experimenting with different forms. There’s a couple of persona poems. There’s some long poems that I’m very excited to have a wider audience look at, because they definitely take political language, and repurpose that language. Looking at immigration is a huge thing in the book.

The first year before this book comes out, there’s definitely gonna be a lot of revision, thinking about structure, thinking about how to let some more air into the manuscript, and then the second year is going to be more production, thinking about the cover, thinking about touring, things of that nature. And I think I have found an amazing, supportive team at Graywolf. They really care about what they publish, and they really build intimate relations with their writers, so I’m excited about that.

CM: Do you think that this work responds to contemporary cultural and political discourses in the same way as Restored Mural for Orlando? Or do you think there’s more distance between you and these issues in your next project?

RG: There’s definitely a lot of poems that have a direct response to the political fiasco that we find ourselves in. I don’t mention this president’s name at all. I refuse to name him, and I don’t think his name appears anywhere in the book. But there’s George W. Bush, who makes a cameo in the book, and I end up contending with a lot of his State of the Union speeches and how those speeches essentially fabricated this notion of “danger” and terrorism around immigration and immigrants and refugees; I contend with that. There’s some poems that deal with rape culture, some of them directly, [others] indirectly. There’s a long poem that deals with sex crimes in the Catholic church as well. Border issues are things that I contend with. Hurricane Mitch, which devastated Honduras, is a figure and metaphor in the book.

CM: It’s interesting, because it still feels very current, but you’re dealing with a lot of things that happened 10, 20, years ago. In that way it’s historical, but still very contemporary.

RG: Yeah, there’s a lot of research that I ended up doing. Even in the Queerodactyl poems, they use a lot of science, and I’ve had to learn terms, figure out how to deploy those terms in the manuscript. [There’s] political language and artistic language. [Also] a lot of giving myself the freedom to also incorporate Spanish or incorporate Spanglish in a way that I don’t need to translate it for other people. I’ve had very good mentors who have stood by me and said “You don’t have to do the translation for a monolingual audience. You can do whatever you want.” That’s been very good. I’m interested to see—because I think with Graywolf that’s been something that’s excited them as well—I’m interested to see what that leads to by the end of this year of revision.


Roy Guzmán is currently pursuing a PhD in Cultural Studies at the University of Minnesota, and holds additional degrees from the University of Minnesota, Dartmouth College, the University of Chicago, and Miami Dade College. Roy’s work has received three Pushcart Prize nominations, five Best of the Net nominations, and has been included in the Best New Poets 2017 anthology. In 2016, Roy developed the chapbook Restored Mural for Orlando in collaboration with poet and artist D. Allen and translator Marco Antonio Huerta. The poem responds to the Pulse massacre in Orlando, and can be ordered here. Roy’s first collection of poetry will be published by Graywolf Press in 2020. Read more about Roy’s work here.

Carolina Marques de Mesquita is an intern with Hayden’s Ferry Review. She is currently pursuing dual bachelor’s degrees in political science and English literature through Barrett, the Honors College at ASU.

Haydens Ferry
A Review of Valerie Bandura's Human Interest

Human Interest by Valerie Bandura

Black Lawrence Press April 2017

ISBN: 978-1-62557-974-4

Review by Joel Salcido

Valerie Bandura’s second collection of poetry, Human Interest, is all Americana: a gun-toting, unapologetically surly, bombardment of sardonic imagery. Bandura conjures the Grateful Dead line—what a long, strange trip it’s been—if that lyric had been laced in sarcasm. The poems have unmistakable breadth: with topics ranging from immigration, to mental illness, to the vapidity of social media, and while the critiques can be scathing, the poems try a little tenderness, too.

Bandura initiates the collection with a romping scene of a carnival-like BDSM bar where the imagery unfurls like a whip, “a red-lit bar and a vampire bartendress / who pointed to a man in a harness / licking the boot of a woman, dog collared.” This scene wets our toes, sure, but more so it feels intended to contextualize the “Ka-boom” epiphany that underlies the collection.

In the introductory poem’s denouement there’s a moment of clarity and we are slipped vulnerability like a mysterious pill, “I mean / to release me from what secrets / and lies I tell the people I trust / never to lie to me, compulsions, obsessions, / perversions, all that pent up inertia / erupting in a cataclysmic cloud.” Readers can breathe in this cloud and to feel its effects as they move through the poems.

Understanding this moment of unmitigated honesty allows for the irony and sarcasm that runs through most of the book to feel less like a shotgun blast of surliness but rather to become a profound meditation on the brokenness of humanity. These meditations hold no pretense or artifice. They are direct, pop-culture idiosyncratic punches to the mouth of the ears. No one is safe or sacred in these poems, America becomes “The Biggest Baby Ever” a Bandura writes, “hurray / for being the least loved celebrity / on channel you can’t pronounce / in places you won’t dare go, famous / for being the freakishly loud.”

Where the tonality calms itself is where the book finds its tenderness in the middle section subtitled: “Nobody’s Crazy. And Everyone Is.” Here, the speaker shifts focus to family; as mother, wife, and sister delve into the inanity of roles and the emotional turmoil of having a sister living with mental illness.

In stark contrast to the heavily detailed and unfurling imagery of most of the collection “Between Me and Crazy” is more lyrical, the voice of the poem contemplates a communication breakdown between sisters. Its tone is one of longing, culminating in the final couplet’s admission, “you’re about to say something, / I can almost hear it.” This hearkens back to the secrets and lies that can only be told to the most trusted—in this case, the page and even beyond that, to the reader. This confession functions as therapy for the speaker because the readers are strangers who, even if they pass judgment, simply listen. Readers should feel the catharsis, and in turn, commiserate with the speaker. It is through this mutual consolation that readers may come to realize that the searing tongue of the collection’s voice is imploring them to laugh, to forget they are mourning at the wake of a broken world.



Valerie Bandura: Born in the former Soviet Union, Valerie Bandura's first book, Freak Show, was a 2014 Patterson Poetry Prize Finalist. Her poems have appeared in American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, The Gettysburg Review, ZYZZYVA, Alaska Quarterly Review, Crazyhorse, Mid-Atlantic Review, Third Coast, Prairie Schooner, River Styx, Beloit Poetry Review, Best New Poets, and many others. She was the recipient of fellowships and scholarships from the Vermont Studio Center and Bread Loaf Writer’s Conference. She teaches creative writing at Arizona State University.

Joel Salcido: Joel Salcido is managing editor of Hayden’s Ferry Review and an MFA candidate in poetry at Arizona State University. His work has been featured in Write On, Downtown, Public Pool, The Decolonizer, and Four Chambers Press among others.





Haydens Ferry