The poems in Sadie Dupuis' Mouthguard are a means of developing a deep personal mythology; to read them is to feel what self-discovery is, and then recognize it in the rearview mirror, disappearing over the broken American horizon. They emerge from the place where known experience and the unknown collide; a borderline we all cross on the way to becoming ourselves.
Mouthguard's poems are magical escapism; devotional affirmations of manic love, or incantations about illness and loss and the strangeness of bodies. Sometimes they're creepy, sometimes droll, very often woe-is-me narcissistic.
Like crying alone in a movie theater, Mouthguard is tender, self-deprecating, nostalgic, and unavoidably romantic. In the end, we're all simultaneously comforted and freaked out by the idea that there is something bigger and deeper in the quiet spaces that operate within us, something just out of reach. This book gives us the language to describe this, a solid place we can remember together.
This is a book that hits you in your heart and third eye at the same time, thank god. Sadie is beyond talented.
Mouthguard comforts you, then throws you into a lake, leaving you laughing and shivering at the same time.
This is a book where magical poems drive us with a holy momentum towards a lonely road where on the side of it we can find a party of accidents that we are all invited to.
The contents of Mouthguard deserve to be deeply analyzed in classrooms and written in permanent marker on jeans and tattooed on forearms. You will read these poems and then your thoughts will rearrange in the air. They reveal themselves as your own large eyes, blinking back at you.