One is never sure who the monsters are in these poems, only that the narrator desperately doesn’t want to be one. In his brilliant debut collection, Hernández explores grief, loss, identity, lineage, and belonging with grace, insight, and compassion.
These pages are infused with comfort, with desire, with heartache. Never absent is love, family. Hernández—hyperaware of American society’s dismissal or hatred of people who look like him—writes with a refreshing confidence, a sure knowledge of who he is and where he comes from. Transcending any particular experience, this volume will continue to resonate with multiple readings.
he says I deserve someone who will love me the way
I love him. I want to kiss him, tell him love isn’t measured.
I squeeze his hand instead, afraid of the thought of anyone looking at us
These poems are full of longing. The trauma of migration, and carrying that weight through life and through generations. A pull between self-loathing and self-acceptance. The way sex can be cathartic or violent or empty or tender. The desire to be good, the fear of not being so, perhaps a question of what that even means.