by Emily Carr
Is there such a thing as sin? How does one fall out of a marriage, and back in love with the world? These fairy tales are for the heartbreakers as much as the heartbroken, for those smitten with wanderlust, for those who still believe it’s possible to make the world we are living in the world we wish to live in.
A singular flow of brilliance, Emily Carr’s swiftly moving sequence of love poems—divorce poems, really—engages the problem of romance in an age of reality television, celebrity self-help, smart phones, student loans, and men who, for all they love you, don’t know how to love you anymore.
Carr’s swell of gorgeous psychedelia is presented in a lavish book-object befitting the work’s interconnected, page-blurring sweep of line upon line:
between her thighs, the buffalo holding sky.
saucers of mountain sway. deities spill, shining & suffering …
not forgetting we can’t ever—whose fury sings like eagles—
skeletons unlean from fruit trees, falling
like white gunsmoke, we want/to be here. listen.
the wind has blown all the birds from our hair.