Sundress Reads: Review of Safe Handling

Safe Handling (Moon Tide Press, 2024), a book-length poem by Rebecca Evans, is nothing short of transformative. The speaker and author are one in the same as Evans travels to Spokane, Washington with her oldest son for his upcoming heart surgery. Extending across twenty-six pages, this sprawling poem treads through the struggles of motherhood and disability with poignance and passion, spoken directly from the heart. 

As Evans and her son travel to Spokane, they must move with their belongings as they search for a place to stay. Every page of this poem begins with a reference to their luggage. Even when they settle at a five-star hotel, courtesy of the kind surgeon, the luggage is mentioned without fail, whether it is present or simply referenced. While the luggage takes on a physical form, however, it simultaneously signifies the emotional “luggage” that is carried amidst times of strife. In this context, Evans specifies using the word “luggage” in place of “baggage” because “Who decided our hurt is baggage? Why not name / our pain luggage—something we can unpack” (Evans 24). While only mentioned at the end of the poem, this perception of luggage is potent throughout the entirety of the poem, the double meaning serving as a backbone. Only on the last page, when Evans and her son are finally returning home, is the specific word “luggage” not used. While it is replaced with “carry-on,” the lack of “luggage” seems like a reference to the ascending trajectory of their lives, the pain finally settling. 

Another important aspect of the poem lies in the third stanza of each page, with countless questions asked back-to-back. Some question sequences take on the son’s voice; most, however, are the interior inquiries of Evans herself, navigating her son’s disorder as best she can. Often serving as the most visceral parts of the poem, questions such as “Will this hurt as much as my last surgery? The one where they cut open my eye muscles” (Evans 11) and “Am I the only one who grieves his grayness?” (Evans 12) seared themselves into my memory. The questions asked by the son are naïve and heartbreaking, a testament to his youth. Evans’s questions are heartbreaking in a different way, tinged with the harrowing fears of a mother conditioned to prepare for the worst. Occasionally, the questions devolve into quiet rumination, seeking to understand memory. For example, Evans ponders on past medical experiences that inform the present moment:  

“Oh! how 

his fragile body de-fibbed itself to life and we—his cardiologist and me— 

thought he suffered seizures. Remember that pediatric neurologist who 

said, “Nothing’s wrong” (Evans 12). 

Sometimes, all one can do is wonder whether by question or reflection. 

It is worth noting that the final line of every stanza lacks any sort of punctuation. The last sentence is usually a fragment, sometimes dropping off in the middle of statements. For example, the “final or” in “I type through the night, finish a poem or a poem or” (Evans 17) is never answered, the first line of the subsequent stanza moving toward an unrelated question. This, alongside the lack of punctuation, follows the frail patterns of thinking individuals may experience when dealing with intense emotional challenges. It is easy, amidst pain, to lose track of oneself, leading thoughts to flurry in a multitude of directions. With this poetic structure, Evans is able to emulate this sensation of sheer overwhelm, leaving readers to wonder about the unfulfilled notions; yet it is impossible to dwell on any single moment for too long, the poem continually plowing forward. 

With emotional intensity and evocative language, Evans maintains motion throughout the piece. It can be said that this is not an easy read. I picked it up in the middle of a sushi restaurant and often felt like I could not continue eating. That challenge, though, is what I loved so dearly about the poem—I felt successfully placed in the speaker’s world, sharing a portion of her burden, her luggage. While I will never fully understand what Evans has endured, her haunting writing has created a realm for readers to emotionally connect with her, even if just briefly, just slightly. Achieving such a stirring impact is no small feat, and to maintain it throughout a poem of this length is a wonder. 

There is so much to be said about Safe Handlings—the poetic structure of each page’s final stanza, the repeated reference of “my son and me” beyond just “us,” and the overall narrative flow, just to name a few. To truly embrace the full levity of this piece, I implore all to join Evans in this vulnerable and honest space with an open heart.

Safe Handling is available from Moon Tide Press

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Mia Grace Davis (she/her) is an undergraduate student at Stanford University. Her work appears in Gone Lawn, The Tusculum Review, and Ice Lolly Review, among others. She is a 2023 National YoungArts Finalist in Writing and a U.S. Presidential Scholars in the Arts Semifinalist. Visit her at miagracedavis.com.