What is sacred, what is beauty, what is tragedy, what rites of passage have we endured to be initiated into the complexities of our humanity? Anastacia-Reneé’s words frame so many questions, read like ritual, read like nursery rhymes, invoke ancestors and Becky alike in a nuanced honest reflection of this time in life.
Safe Word, Donald Dunbar’s second collection of poetry, acts as a tonic against spiritual death. This book is the kompromat of the undersoul, the blotter paper in the plea deal, a crystal jutting out of the center of an otherwise-innocent forehead. Dunbar chops, screws, solders, and sutures forms of thought and feeling into abominations you might just fall in love with, and be consumed by. Never be bored again.
Through the tight metal lid he heard scratching and scurrying. He ran away to watch cartoons.
All supposed to help but little did they know i loved
Don’t play with your food. / Don’t line up the peas.
Under a moonless sky. Blue chalk / like dried blood staining his palms.
a welter of disrobing thoughts ...
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