not my daughter
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not my daughter is a mesmerizing collection of 44 poems that are part confessional, part documentary, part analytical lyric exploration of the adoption system, part southern baptist parentage and queer identity narrative, part psychedelic sensual love story of the self and others, part meditation on grief within a complicated relationship, part, part, part. As you will find throughout, "this is my body, / broken for you," it contains multitudes. Jessie is a poetic auteur of technical brilliance, singular personality, and deep interior meaning who immerses the reader in a universe through the u...
not my daughter is a mesmerizing collection of 44 poems that are part confessional, part documentary, part analytical lyric exploration of the adoption system, part southern baptist parentage and queer identity narrative, part psychedelic sensual love story of the self and others, part meditation on grief within a complicated relationship, part, part, part. As you will find throughout, "this is my body, / broken for you," it contains multitudes. Jessie is a poetic auteur of technical brilliance, singular personality, and deep interior meaning who immerses the reader in a universe through the use of her textured world. When we read these luminous poems filled with beauty and grief and desire, we learn ways to examine ourselves, our relationships, and others through new perspectives. We are able to glean many truths, such as how "Death and life both crave / clarity, light" or how "We are always clamoring, aggregating, / attaching, hoping we aren't really alone / striving toward impossible satiation." This collection of poems shows the influence of its tradition: the tight narratives of Dorianne Laux, the disruption and complications of narratives like Natalie Diaz or Victoria Chang, the relentlessly beautiful lyrics of Diane Seuss, the rhythm-obsession of Sylvia Plath but with the natural pockets of Patricia Smith along with the emotional depth and care of subject matter as Ellen Bass, and a way of engaging with the world through eyes of wonder as Tomas Tranströmer or Ross Gay. When she "last kissed her [mother's] cheek too close to her neck, / remembered choking," we're present. When we're shown "calla lilies, one slow week of wilting," we experience the feeling of "the finality of nothing we can do cancer." When she asks, "Do you leave it unexamined?" We consider how being "in the fuddle of grief" shapes the present and our future reflections.
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