Dallagiacomo’s debut collection, Sink, reads as much as an autobiography and feminist anthem as it does a collection of poems. I devoured it. This is the type of work that is brave when it shouldn’t have to be, raw, beckoning, honest. The opening poem, My First Altar, started off clunky for me, but returning to it later, I appreciated how it tied the collection together and spoke to all the things we sacrifice in order to rise up. It’s generational; it honors the pain (poverty, abuse, mental illness, addiction, loss, abandonment) and glory (physical bodies, resilience, love) we inherit, how we process it, and the output we pay forward. For Dallagiacomo, this output appears to be fierce love, forgiveness and empathy, for others and herself.
I’ll tell you of the time/ she dug me out of the worst/ grave in the cemetery/ of my life. I’ll tell you of the time/ she was so high, she forgot/ I was living. And I will tell you that I love her/ still, still, and again.
It is an homage to becoming a woman, to the process of falling in love with a body that society rejects, to overcoming shame, and to thriving against all odds. It is at times a eulogy to those she has lost to suicide, abandonment, prison, patriarchy. It is a story of a mother’s strength, a father’s ghost and a daughter who swept the shards of her childhood into effigy of beauty: her body, herself, her book.