In this third collection, Mira Hadlow writes from the the space between wanting and having, leaving and staying, word and silence. These are poems of suspension, where touch almost lands, confessions almost surface, and the life you almost chose haunts the one you’re living.
Structured in five movements – Let Us Witness, Let Us Hunger, Let Us Burn, Let Us Go, Let Us Remember – Nearly moves through the quiet violences of perception, desire, rupture, and return. Lovers become ghost-light. Kitchens turn into chapels. Doorways, beds, stairwells, and coffee cups hold the afterimage of what almost was.
Hadlow’s language is intimate and sharp, mixing reverence and profanity, tenderness and bite. She writes for anyone who has stayed too long, left too late, or lived in the purgatory of mixed signals and half-promises. These poems don’t offer easy catharsis. They linger in the unresolved, the unfinished, the “not quite” that shapes a life.
For readers drawn to liminal spaces, raw devotion, and the strange holiness of heartbreak, Nearly is a map of the the place where nothing is certain, everything is felt, and almost is its own kind of haunting.
Mira Hadlow is a Canadian poet and writer whose work explores grief, resilience, womanhood, and the quiet spaces where survival remakes us. After losing her hearing in adulthood, she turned to writing as a way to rebuild her world from the inside out. Her voice is known for its clarity, vulnerability, and unflinching honesty.
She is the author of three poetry collections—As Muses Burn, Red, and Nearly—as well as a contributor to multiple anthologies. Her work often centers the unheard and the overlooked, driven by a belief that truth-telling is a form of reclamation.
When she isn’t writing, Mira can usually be found renovating something, misplacing her coffee for the forty-seventh time, or challenging whatever authority figure wandered too close.