Just a few poems into this debut collection by Rankine, recipient of a Discovery/
Boston Review Poetry Prize, we know her doubt and dislocation. "Dear displacement/ Dear broken skin/ I am in over my head," says the opening poem, while another proclaims, "In the city, the climate is hostile, which suits me." Elsewhere, Rankine blows away our illusions and reminds us, "Our stone wall was built by slaves and my bones, my bones/ are paid for." So why does this collection not feel grim? Because Rankine is such an honest writer, because there's cool recognition here ("You swore// there would be no other apocalypse and here we are/ again"), and because her especially clear, elegant lines reveal someone with light and fight.
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