In this startling first collection, Sara Lamers, with eyes clear and unflinching, observes the world of what is disappearing from our lives, loss that is all but invisible and impossible to impede. With juxtapositions that shift us into surprising realizations, and with dexterity of form, she reveals to us the haunting remains we seldom realize until we achieve a dark epiphany. Lamers holds what remains up to the light, not to redeem it, but to make what has disappeared all the more luminous in its absence. This is a strange comfort, but it is a comfort we recognize and need. — Jack Ridl
I totally hated this book. It seemed like every poem was about either the body, meditating on a random season or a random city in Europe. And does any book of poems need two poems about Kurt Cobain? In my opinion, one is far more than enough.