"Here's Jill McDonough, Here All Night, belting out an endearing song of herself that is, as Whitman's is, tuned in to some thrumming undercurrent of joy in all the mess that is America. The poems' catalogue of the unwieldy stuff of domestic life ultimately insists that things are pretty good-love endures, friends come through, there's plenty of gin. Unabashed and boisterous, McDonough's voice also coos with gratitude and aching tenderness. A vital book in multiple senses: read it and feel more alive." -Maggie Dietz
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