Here’s a fun fact: Honduras in Spanish means “depths,” which is relevant here, where the profound reveals itself on the poems’ surfaces, vibrating with sonic and electric currents. Maldonado thrills with the contradictions in New York City life, where the people, in mourning over another victim of police brutality, can take over a plaza named to honor a colonizer; where the laundromat offers communion and the subway a site for Emersonian contemplation; where laying on your couch very well may be the ultimate act of resistance; where you could be a Central American Quaker in a Caribbean borough grooving to an Icelandic dance queen’s DJing. Spunk, grit, the real deal, that’s what you get here.
A book full of poems where the persona does not give a fuck what you think. Full of screams and frankness about how shit many things are while celebrating all that isn’t. You will recognize what it is to depart, to grieve, and coast through cities that rather see you in the dirt.
A decent enough collection of New York Latina poetry that would probably slay at an Open Mic/Slam Poetry even but don't really fly off the printed page. There's some clever alliteration and some amusing code-switching flourishes, but not much in the way of standout pieces or verses that stay with you.
For once I don’t think I can rate this book. The words are so powerful, making her voice being heard on these pages. So who am I to judge this book by a rating. I did not resonate with this book which makes it harder to like, but I can see why this is almost a 5 star novel. Mixed mixed feelings.