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Blaze
From Kayla Sargeson’s tender grit, we truly experience that poems are made of grief, and hunger, and lipstick, and violence, and frying pierogies in your underwear. BLAZE captures the primary job of the poet: to see exactly what is (no matter how terrifying), and keep looking anyway. These poems will make you braver for having read them. --Stacey Waite
"In the tattoo chair, I'm queen/ of concrete," says Kayla Sargeson in one of her beautifully tough poems that fill BLAZE with such fire. If her poems want destruction—and they do—it is only to tear down the concrete that separate us from each other. "The night you died," ends one of these heartbreaking elegies, "I dreamed of feathers and black pumps." These are poems that take unflinchingly hard looks at the lives we live and the way we fail. "I've spent the past year memorizing your face," one speaker says, longingly, turning the beloved into an image of power. "I finally don't care that you don't know mine," the speaker rejoins, wryly, because art is a kind of love, and vice versa. These are poems of incredible longing, of incredible loss. And still they dare. They put on shimmer and shine and strut in their black pumps, in their black feather boas. These poems—about heartbreak and death, about art that "churns the bottom of our stomachs"—these poems are going to save us. --James Allen Hall
"In the tattoo chair, I'm queen/ of concrete," says Kayla Sargeson in one of her beautifully tough poems that fill BLAZE with such fire. If her poems want destruction—and they do—it is only to tear down the concrete that separate us from each other. "The night you died," ends one of these heartbreaking elegies, "I dreamed of feathers and black pumps." These are poems that take unflinchingly hard looks at the lives we live and the way we fail. "I've spent the past year memorizing your face," one speaker says, longingly, turning the beloved into an image of power. "I finally don't care that you don't know mine," the speaker rejoins, wryly, because art is a kind of love, and vice versa. These are poems of incredible longing, of incredible loss. And still they dare. They put on shimmer and shine and strut in their black pumps, in their black feather boas. These poems—about heartbreak and death, about art that "churns the bottom of our stomachs"—these poems are going to save us. --James Allen Hall
36 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2015
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