Sundress Reads: Review of I’m not, I’m not, I’m not a baby

Dev Murphy’s I’m not, I’m not, I’m not a baby (Ethel, 2024) is a compelling jigsaw of poetry, prose, and artwork that explores being human. Murphy wields craft like a well-sharpened pencil, delivering sentences and phrases that cut and linger. 

Much of this skill shows up in unique images and surprising use of simple words and phrases. Often, when writing–especially poetry–it feels as if every possible metaphor, simile, or rhyme has already been used. It is such a genuine pleasure to encounter the unexpected. For example, Murphy writes: “I envision myself walking around with a little egg balanced on my head. One wrong move, and it will roll” (22). There is nothing new or complicated about eggs, or balancing something on one’s head, but I had never before considered the simple, yet profound precariousness of balancing an egg on one’s head. When considering delicate situations, or moments of stress and uncertainty, we often turn to imagery that focuses on where we place our feet, not how we carry ourselves. But this image of an egg on the narrator’s head gives such a vivid impression of exactly how they have to move in order to avoid it falling, that we get an entire existence of casual tension, instead of just a singular careful walk. 

Multiple favorite poems of mine from this collection also demonstrate Murphy’s images as unexpected and simple, so striking. “The Hoard” offers a brilliant example:

“Lewis also wrote Do not love anything, not even an animal, and your heart will never be broken. // I would rather be a rock: irredeemable, casketed, and waiting on no one. But I am desirous all the time of you, all the time desirous to the point of waiting all day for you, while you are painting and mowing and making your dinner. My basil is wilting and my inbox is full, and when you come to me with seeds and soup and paper and invitations, I am a soundless edge—you are here!—and in your presence still I wait, wait, with nothing to show for myself but my love, with nothing to show for my love but my loving. Prop it up and then withdraw. // I do not know if you are in love with me, but if you are, you are in love with a dead squirrel. // Straight-faced and with tender paws I lay your gifts in a shoebox under my bed. There they calcify, they colden.” (Murphy, 14)

We are used to grand cliches like “I’ll love you until I die” or “You are my everything.” This piece instead says, “I would rather be a rock,” says, “I am desirous all the time of you,” says, “you are in love with a dead squirrel” (Murphy 14). There is something gritty, real, and relatable about comparing oneself to a dead squirrel. Love is messy. Real life is messy. Dead squirrels are messy.

The art of I’m not, I’m not, I’m not a baby is similarly simple and masterful. These are no ultra-realistic masterpieces, but they perfectly complement the overall feeling of disjointed chaos that is the life each of these pieces is narrating. Life is gritty and imperfect, with spilled coffee and mis-sent emails and days where putting the laundry in the basket instead of tossing it on the floor is inexplicably beyond our capability. The imperfect, expressionist art of this collection complements the writing to highlight this everyday messiness. 

One of the many underlying threads I noticed in reading I’m not, I’m not, I’m not a baby is the exploration of belief and religion. Murphy begins with a seemingly off-hand mention in  “Fortuneteller,” saying, “It is my family’s right to trust no one but God” (16). She continues in the next piece, “Lamb’s Ear,” with the more self-related, “Once as a child I heard the Lord say to me My frightened little lamb” (Murphy, 18) and a more in-depth look at the relationship between self, identity, and belief. The exploration though, maintains the same straightforward language of the collection that so captures my interest. 

There is no great philosophical discussion, just another person like you or me stating, “If we’re talking about life and death here, you should know that I don’t want to live in a world where I don’t now and then hear the voice of God” (Murphy, 18). What fascinates me so much about this, is the juxtaposition between the way the family of the narrator sees God, and the way the narrator sees God.

The implication in these two pieces (“Fortuneteller,” and “Lamb’s Ear”) is that they are both the same God, and yet also very different. This mirrors some of the dissonance I see in present-day Christianity between practitioners who have differing beliefs about queerness in the church. The dissonance of these pieces is made all the more stark by the image that follows. There is a certain bittersweet-ness to “Full of New God” that reminded me of nostalgia, of searching for belonging while still grieving what was left behind.

Hybrid collections, in general, carry a certain inherent experience of freshness–you never really know what you’re reading, they can be extremely difficult to label. Is it poetry or prose? Fiction or non-fiction? Neither? Something in-between? That is true of I’m not, I’m not, I’m not a baby as well, and something immensely enjoyable about the collection. As a reader, you get to approach the work with no expectations or preconceived notions. As a whole, I’m not, I’m not, I’m not a baby is fresh, engaging, and easy to read again and again. Bravo, Dev, bravo. 

I’m not, I’m not, I’m not a baby is available from Ethel Press

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Nic Job is a queer writer with their MFA from DePaul University and a constant curiosity for the world—cultures, places, people, and themself. They are a human who loves humans, and all of their tangled-up ordinariness. Their fiction, non-fiction, and poetry is published in Club Plum, Defunct Magazine, Spare Parts Literary, and other magazines.