Loved, loved, loved this book. It’s called a prose poem, but as someone who doesn’t usually read poetry, it felt more to me like a series of lyrical essays—each tied to a common theme and unfolding with a clear narrative arc.
On her father's treatment of sickness when she was a child, Andrews wrote: 'In one hand he held a glass of water, and in the other, a Bayer aspirin. He believed in Bayer, owned stock in the company, said it cured everything--nausea, diarrhea, flu, canker sores, nightmares, pink eye, insomnia. "Take this," he'd say. "You'll feel much better." If one pill didn't work, he'd give you another. I can still feel that little pill entering my bloodstream like a tiny white tooth."
I have never read a book like this. And that’s a compliment…how hard it is to write something original. One of Nin's techniques: many of her memories resolve in a final sentence that unlocks the tension that she built with the exposition. And those final sentences, how much work they do in so few words, each a kind of novel unto itself, some of them hilarious, others a stab in the heart: • “All a dairy farmer needs from a bull is best kept in cold storage.” • “Like she didn’t yet know what kind of cruelty her beauty was.” • “Or how much he admired a liar like himself.” • “Before I was born, my name was George.” • “We stared at him, the two of us combing his hair with our eyes.”
Nin Andrews shares her story through prose poems, the perfect choice for weaving together a series of memories that often linger around one simple object or moment in time. Each chapter makes a captivating micro-story on its own, but together, they become the haunting backbone of a life the author is still trying to piece together and understand as an adult.