Written during lockdown, this poetry collection contains no content whatsoever about either the plague or the isolation it brought. This is a curious mix of introspection and desperate bids to find hope and joy in an often terrifying world. The best way to make bone soup is not to have to make it in the first place. These were hard days, and mostly it felt like all I had to create with was my own bones. So here they are, boiled mercilessly in a weird, optimistic attempt at making something a bit like food.
A beautifully raw, painful and poignant collection of poems. There are moments of pure brilliance - 'This is not an index'; beautifully stark - 'How to make bone soup' and 'Conflict Damage', heart warming 'I do impossible things', generational - 'This is not forgiveness' and so much more. Sometimes the cracked souls shine the brightest.