This book is tender, in that is it full of heart and blood, anger and desire. One thing that stood out to me in this book (and there are many things that Crowe does expertly, on a word-level, a line-level, and a conceptual level) is how well she writes about, well, love. Not the saccharine, romance-love we’re used to groaning over in verse. The real, blistering, terrifying, sustaining love that can warm us from within, that animates us and pulls us forward. These poems traffic in love and all its shades, and the reader is all the better for being able to experience them.