“My parents collided in that gold and fevered city.” Amnion, the debut book of poetry by Stephanie Sy-Quia, defies all classification — as a long poem, split up into key narrative sections, it also flits between the novelistic, essayistic, epic, lyric. It is a poem that functions both as a memoir and as a deconstruction of memoir, and intersperses more political concerns amongst the personal ones, often intertwining them so that, rightly, the two become inextricable from one another. And, for all of that, Sy-Quia isn’t afraid to play with expectation — early on, after establishing certain key facts, she begins the ‘Summer 1986’ segment with a shocking declaration: “I lied”. This revelation, disrupting a narrative thread that had been establishing itself so far, casts not only what was into doubt but everything yet to come, an extraordinary commentary about how subjectivity is inherent in matters of history, and how history is little more than the stitching together of anecdotes and perspective. Sy-Quia has such a gift for crafting the most striking expressions, within a style that is restrainedly biographical: “Mama, Papa, look / I have torn it all down / to make you a museum!”; “God could be in English. / No one had prepared them for this rupture”; and, one of my favourites: “Empires are like milk teeth. / They fall.” The way Sy-Quia (or her poetic voice, as they are not always the same thing) gets into poetry — literature as “a great fridge in the middle of the night and I was starving” — was so perfectly resonant, as was her articulation of what it means to unfold such a personal history: “And when the stories are shrugged from my shoulders, then I am free.”