Category: Sundress Reads

Sundress Reads: Review of ‘Flood’ by Rachel Bulman

In Flood (Sunlight Press 2025), Christine Kalafus writes with power. The myriad themes and stories she interweaves are beautiful, but more importantly, they serve a greater purpose: a woman writing with intention.

Dealing with her lived experience as source material, Kalafus layers snippets of her life in a vast collage of motherhood, chemotherapy, mental health, and what it means to be a woman.

Wielding fluid, gentle prose and a calm, matter-of-fact tone that occasionally dips into self-deprecating, Kalafus draws the reader into a conversation which, to me, felt like reconnecting with an older sister years after losing touch. She recollects her past with authority and insight, but lays bare the doubt, the pain and the ultimate growth that brought her through the ‘flood’, a metaphor used throughout the book to illustrate drowning, both in a literal and emotional sense. It is a highly reflective, carefully arranged memoir, unfolding the cost of pushing your body and mind to their limits.

I am reluctant to reveal too much of the content, but Kalafus’ situation is a tragedy that hardly bears imagining––lurking cancer, three children: one only four years old, two yet unborn.

As Kalafus so plainly puts it: “You can’t outrun a flood” (110).

Indeed, water pervades every aspect of the book. Humidity in the house, ruining the piano; the fresh spring at neighbours’; the leaking cracks in the basement; every literal breakage offers a mirror to Kalafus’ internal landscape.

Prevalent throughout the story as a stronghold against storms, the house earns its place at the centre of LJ Mucci’s cover design. When introduced, it feels alive, offering sanctuary, becoming a manifestation of feeling outcast or odd. It brings joy to Kalafus, “as if the house’s blueprint had been daylight” (21).

But this creation solidified my fears as Kalafus steadily accelerates the looming threat of a flood. Not just of emotion, but a physical, biblical flood that may leave behind nothing but wreckage. And all emphasised by the unearthing feeling of being told something you thought was certain is not: my husband loves me, my house cannot flood, I do not have cancer. Flood is what happens when solid ground becomes malleable, and stability falls away.

Over the course of the memoir, Kalafus delves into her life before diagnosis. She recalls growing up in Connecticut and northern Virginia, discusses the internalized threats women face and observes society persistently teaching women how to dress to avoid danger, and so the real threats go unnoticed––invasion “from the inside” (3). Amid powerful childhood memories, Kalafus recalls being objectified, sexualised, and fearful, shared with the casual understanding that this is what ‘normal’ looks like for most women. As I read, I found myself struck by an outsider’s perspective: the tragedy of growing up as a woman and never learning how proud you should be.

Kalafus’ musings on womanhood permeate the whole text: “In my family, a woman’s denial of herself equalled survival” (23), “I apologise for the mother they won in the lottery” (114), “I ignore him because that’s how I’ve been socially trained to manage a raging asshole” (121). To my surprise, I felt known by this book, and I felt rage on behalf of Kalafus, and every woman whose opinion was superseded by a man who thought he knew best.

With razor-sharp precision, Flood elaborates on female guilt, the pernicious companion to feminine rage: harder to eradicate and all too easy to indulge. Even after all she has survived, Kalafus struggles not to blame herself (163).

This was a topic made all the more raw by the realities of medical treatment. A combination of the occasional colossal ineptitude of medical professionals and the consistent devaluation of women’s opinions, Flood suggests that negligence can become a form of cruelty without intent. Kalafus makes a devastating case against the apathy of doctors and the American healthcare system at large.

I took away from this book a lesson in setting limits––a hard-won battle for Kalafus––an example of expressed agency, a deeper understanding of its worth, and a steadfast belief that your opinions about your body have value.

Kalafus delicately puts something that should be taught to every woman from childhood: you do not have to keep the whole world in balance, as much as you are told to. It is an impossible task; Atlas holding up the sky; Sisyphus’s boulder: “As a modern woman, I’m supposed to do everything at one time. Glass ceiling smacker, mother martyr, sex goddess, selfless sisterdaughterfriend” (156). All roles that led to such acute stress that they were considered the only suggested cause of her diagnosis.

Merging the poetic intent of Mary Oliver with the clarity of Margaret Atwood, Kalafus’s writing is ruthless with details and surgically precise. From the smooth and elegant inclusion of a second-person perspective to the balanced and intriguing variations in page layout, including lists and quotes, Kalafus offers an arrangement finely tuned for brutal contextual impact.

Flood layers its tragic elements so delicately that I felt the water rising around me––despite the stress of two newborns, rising water tables, and chemotherapy, I had been mercifully spared worrying about the details of medical bills and insurance repayments until Kalafus chose to open that floodgate as well.

Just as Kalafus quotes her mother’s wisdom, I will repeat it here: “It is possible to be completely terrified of something and do it anyway” (198) to show that you can survive the flood and smile again on the other side.

Order your copy of Flood today!

The side profile of a pale-skinned woman wearing glasses and a grey baseball cap as she looks off to her right side. In the background is a scenic body of water, greenery on the horizon line, and a clear blue sky.

Rachel Bulman (she/her) holds a BA in English and Creative Writing as well as an MA in Publishing from the University of Exeter, specialising in interactive and children’s fiction. Her written work has appeared in The Book of Choices, Velvet Fields, and Exeposé, among others. Find her on Instagram @worm.can.read, through her online portfolio, or ask the bridge troll who taught him his riddles three.

Sundress Reads: Review of Souvenirs from Another Life

Sundress Reads

Leah Browning’s Souvenirs from Another Life (Quiet Ocean Studio & Press, 2026) is the first full-length short fiction collection from the author, but the latest in a long line of chapter books, non-fiction, and poetry. With over thirty publications having originally featured many of the stories, this collection is an amalgamation of multiple years of work and dedication to the craft. At its core, the collection is a series of vignettes featuring life at its truest: in relation to others. From first loves to last days, the shutter closes on glimpses of parents, children, friends, lovers, and strangers as they navigate what it means to live a life.

In form, Souvenirs from Another Life is diverse. Its diversity is most evident in its inclusion of everything from full-length literary fiction to microfiction. The variation in the length, content, and perspective of each story maintains an engaging pace. With every page turned, completely new expectations are set. In theme, it feels almost voyeuristic, looking on at these faceless characters as they navigate the most arduous or joyous days of their lives. They have plain names and minimal physical descriptions, lending to that anonymity. We absorb these moments in singularity, often completely unaware of their backstory. 

This book is the embodiment of the feeling when you are sitting at a cafe, sipping on your americano, when two best friends sit down at the table beside you. Just over the noise of the busy street, you overhear fragments of their conversation. One of them is breaking up with their boyfriend or dealing with a terrible landlord. You know you are eavesdropping, and you know you should not, but curiosity gets the better of you. That quiet thrill is what keeps you reading Souvenirs from Another Life.

In particular, the collection truly shines in its briefest stories. While the few plots that were linked were always fascinating, I found myself most struck by the ones that lasted a few mere paragraphs.

As I read on, I was particularly intrigued by the idea of absence. Without being able to sit with a character for very long, there is an intentional lack of intimacy between the reader and the narrator. You are being held at arm’s length by the form while Browning’s high stakes and distinct characterization pull you closer. But the less there is to know, the more room it gives for the reader to insert their own thoughts, beliefs, and interpretations. It invites an open dialogue, encouraging you to contend with the story and reflect on your own memories.

“If I had more time, I would have written you a shorter letter.” Often wrongly attributed, the quote can be traced to a philosopher, Blaise Pascal. During my undergraduate studies in Creative Writing, my professors often cited a similar idea. Series are easier to master than a standalone novel. A short story is painstaking. A poem is completely, utterly excruciating. A single sentence can torment you.

See, an excerpt from “WORLDS,” a story that, in length, was under a page:

“But in the middle of the night, she’d lent me a toothbrush, and I’d watched her floss her teeth” (Browning 95).

In under twenty words, Browning masterfully presents setting, character, and action. Newness, uncertainty, and awe permeate the world of the narrator. There is an air of domesticity working in contrast to unfamiliarity. It is almost tangible. The cool night air, the white tiles, the silence. But all of that is there without actually being said. It is that absence that allows you to make a world feel whole without a whole novel to bring it to life. The story is colored by your own memory of longing. It is an invitation to reflect.

The intent of the collection is epitomized in the title story of the collection, from the point of view of an unnamed character:

“The photographs I found all over the apartment were proof that these things had happened: my courtship, my wedding, the birth of my child” (Browning 142).

At its most literal level, the narrator examines souvenirs of a life that was once hers but no longer is. We feel her grief, her regret, and her remorse. Many of these emotions permeate these stories, prompting the audience to use an insular moment to imagine a life that they are not privy to. Perhaps it even evokes nostalgia for former versions of ourselves. Times when we were still in love with that girl, living with our college roommate, or simply a time in which we did not understand heartbreak in the way we do now. The stories in this collection are steeped in sentimentality for life, in all its beauty and all its discomfort. It is an act of remembrance about what it means to be human. 

The last line of the collection reads, “As she crossed the yard, Stacy had watched her, feeling the metal of the house key, warm against her skin” (Browning 220).

As we cross into the next chapter of our lives, may we always use Browning’s examination of memory as a reminder to look at our own souvenirs with grace and reverence for our past selves.

Souvenirs from Another Life is available from Quiet Ocean Studio & Press.

Reina Maiden-Navarro is an editor, writer, and photographer. She recently graduated from UC Irvine with a degree in Film & Media Studies and a minor in Creative Writing, cum laude. She also works as an Editor at Prompt and an Outreach Coordinator at Bookstr. If she is not reading or writing, she can be found traveling, painting, or baking cookies.

Sundress Reads: Review of Not Now Now

Sundress Reads

Sandra Doller’s Not Now Now (Rescue Press, 2025) is a powerful interrogation of motherhood, autonomy, and growing older in a country rooted in patriarchy and violence. By playing with the nonsensical, the incongruous, and the strange, Doller’s work interrogates the self and attempts an honest answer about our sobering reality. Although all the poems are untitled, the collection is divided into three sections: “Not,” “Now,” and “Now,” tracing a compelling arc on coming to terms with adulthood.

In the first section “Not,” often unpunctuated poems bleed into one another as Doller explores the frenzied contradictions of daily life. Her work is intentionally, unreservedly indulgent, focusing on the complications of authority and (in)dependence. In particular, the rhetorical weight of the “I” looms in each poem. In one instance, Doller’s speaker reflects, “he doesn’t use the word I / at all, just We and They / occasionally You but never / Himself never inserted as if / that’s a kind of absence / when in fact it’s the worst / kind of present tense / takeover as if he is not even / in his own likeness” (41). At the same time, Doller’s speaker turns to another unknown figure, “You and your dirty / I” (27). Through wielding both accusation and praise, Doller challenges the idea of a “tainted” or shameful self. No one is wholly innocent, or naive, or even honest with themselves, but perhaps the so-called dirtiness as we grow older—the accumulated disappointments, sorrows, regrets—does not need to be harbored in secret shame.

It is also in “Not” that Doller lays the groundwork for a vision of a distorted quotidian, interrupting what the reader may assume to be “normal.” Suspending disbelief, Doller’s speaker describes instead: “When women speak with / their mouths full of soap…Their mouths wide / whale for the credit / card insert a flag here” (38). The credit card, blurred into a flag, with a presumed place inside a woman’s body, is a true mark of the American violence that Doller attempts to grapple with. More subtly, the poem’s speaker also points out, “Erasure of girl / is a tricky little / business I’ve been / at for a few / centuries now…Puffed / sleeves and push / ups everything is / elevated. Make it / higher and high / like bangs” (42). Through the poem’s progression, Doller creates a heightening anxiety and tension that reflects the truly century-long project of controlling bodies—gender, sexuality, sex. How is girlhood defined? And then policed? What kind of adulthood can emerge from and in conjunction with this?

In “Now,” the collection’s second section, Doller’s dense series of prose poems pulls the reader into its very center of tension. The images are equally distorted as before, but the distortion settles into clarity now, where a landscape of often white, middle-class, suburban American domesticity emerges. It is in this space that Doller shoots questions with more striking precision than ever. “Does your belief depend on me to open it,” the poem’s speaker asks, to “crack that nut like a slow-moving rat on the line, does it” (72). In cutting bluntness, Doller dares the reader to face most what they want to the least. What loss had to occur and continues to occur in order for your current life to take place? In another poem: “How many years did a woman live here before me,” and “once you move in there is no moving anymore” (53). Doller makes it clear that in her poems, we are not walking around in wonder or confusion anymore. We are asking questions; we are conversing; we are creating our own answers. Despite the sinister threat of inaction and stagnancy, a form of agency and pushing forward is still possible. “I am a moving crisis in Washington and the kids know it,” Doller’s speaker declares, “watch me watch you corrupt the process” (76).

Finally, in the last section, also titled “Now,” Doller closes the collection on a note that is neither melancholic nor optimistic, but uncompromising and sincere. In one of the poems, the speaker confesses, “I have / been afraid so / afraid before. / I am sore / for the men / inside their empty / puffy suits. I have / never coughed like / that or moved my neck / so little” (109). Through this tender and vulnerable admission, the speaker acknowledges their world for what it is and has been, but now the space opens up to change. Language must be intentional, broken apart, changed—which is why Doller writes, “We foil / ourselves like cartoon / bandits. America are you / listening, lingering, are you / so old you can’t just can’t anymore” (102). Instead of saying “are you so old you just can’t anymore,” the poem refuses the oft-used excuse of fatigue and tradition.

Not Now Now is a stunning collection that grapples with how precarious our existences are. Even in our conversations with each other, just one letter can determine the sentence’s meaning, “the way one letter from word ‘now’ to ‘not’ changes everything: your breakfast is now ready, your breakfast is not ready” (Doller 55). There is fragility and ambiguity to most problems, but the reader learns through these poems that they must confront these experiences head-on. As Doller writes, “Let the times you flinch be / the times you’re really in it” (39).

Order your copy of Not Now Now here.

Ruoyu Wang is a writer from Seattle. Their poems appear in Sine Theta Magazine, COUNTERCLOCK, and The Shore, and have been recognized by YoungArts, The Adroit Journal, and Narrative Magazine, among others. Currently, they serve as the Founding Director of the SUNHOUSE Summer Writing Mentorship and study Critical Race and Political Economy at Mount Holyoke College. They love linguistics, postcards, live music, and jasmine milk tea.

Sundress Reads: Review of Follow This Blood to Find a Dead Thing

Sundress Reads

Charles K. Carter’s Follow This Blood to Find a Dead Thing: Poems and Tales (Fernwood Press, 2026) is an explorative, alluring collection of flash fiction, vignettes, free verse, and more. Divided into four sections, the book transforms a vessel of ecopoetics into an examination of human relationships, sexuality, and mental health. Carter’s sophomore release paints pictures of stunning, overgrown, and lustrous landscapes while simultaneously tearing at the most heart-wrenching and isolating aspects of the modern experience. 

In Follow This Blood to Find a Dead Thing: Poems and Tales, the author’s interest in what they were writing about stood out immediately. Writing about animal and plant life so cleverly requires a fundamental understanding of the named specimens. Early on, it is clear that Carter has a true affinity for nature. Their fascination is tangible on the page, from visual allusions to orchids and willow trees to vibrant references to gnats and grasshoppers. Their enthusiasm for these ecological subjects made the collection all the more compelling, as I was eager to learn more about how they could transform this knowledge into poetry. 

See, from Part I, an excerpt from the poem entitled “Blooming”: 

“Many native prairie flowers grow close together / to help each other carry the weight of the world, / to help each other stand tall” (Carter, 22). 

It is true that prairie flowers tend to congregate. It is an evolutionary response to surviving in areas with high winds. To root their imagery in truth, the author needs to have a concrete understanding of the nature that they are referencing. Carter does. That attention to detail strengthens their writing and forms trust between the reader and the book.  

Throughout this collection, Carter uses facts like those about the various flowers in “Blooming” and intermingles them with potent metaphors. They utilize natural examples of destruction and perseverance to argue for the same possibilities in human life. It was imagery that I understood and was easily able to relate to. What I did not know, I researched. Then, I was able to apply that concrete visual allusion to the picture of my own friend group and the collective support I feel through their presence. In that, Carter’s writing, despite being very emotionally-driven, is simultaneously scientific.  

Often, these grounded metaphors lead to a feeling of observation. Many of the poems read like hypotheses, long mulled over after following and evaluating a creature in its natural habitat. 

“An ant, used to relying on her colony to survive, / will purposely leave her home if she is infected with a disease” (Carter, 38). 

Then, a stanza later… 

“One of my coworkers / Couldn’t even be bothered to wear a mask for ten minutes in Walgreens” (Carter, 38). 

Often, emotions like aggression and territoriality are attributed to having an “animal instinct.” Carter subverts this notion, challenging readers to think about the sense of community and altruism that exists in the animal kingdom. At the same time, the author is also turning a spotlight on the greed and self-interest that have created division between people in the last few years. Can selfish interests be chalked up to an animalistic instinct, or is it also true that community building and preservation are innate qualities?  

The thing that most often captivates me about Follow This Blood to Find a Dead Thing: Poems and Tales is the contrast. Within a short excerpt, not only can you feel the author’s admiration for the ant, but you can also feel their disdain for the actions of their fellow humans. By placing these two examples in opposition, especially considering Carter’s affection for nature, it becomes clear what their standpoint truly is. 

Yet, despite this frustration, much of the collection is still about humans and human moments, whether fictional or not. In particular, the flash fiction of this collection showcases truly human relationships, dialogue, and actions. They are moments shared over dinner, in old houses, or on a day out. They are between lovers, friends, or family. Whether comforting or unsettling, the conversation still revolves around human life. It is aggravating, humiliating, and captivating all at the same time. It is one more outlet for the author to confront trauma, heartbreak, and loneliness as humanity struggles to find its humanity.  

Finally, in Part IV of the collection, the human comes face-to-face with nature, entering a conversation where they reckon with their impact on the natural world. In Earth’s last moments, a human speaks to an eagle, whale, cockroach, and dog. The penultimate piece solidifies the ecological, anthropological, and political message of the collection. It is a call to action. 

From “The Last Night on Earth”: 

“What a lonely night it would be if they still pretended not to / hear one another” (Carter, 72). 

Now, the character of the human must finally contend with what the human author has been urging them to hear all along. And, as a reader, the most important thing this collection did was encourage me to listen. I hope others will, too. 

Follow This Blood to Find a Dead Thing: Poems and Tales is available from Fernwood Press

Reina Maiden-Navarro is an editor, writer, and photographer. She recently graduated from UC Irvine with a degree in Film & Media Studies and a minor in Creative Writing, cum laude. She also works as an Editor at Prompt and an Outreach Coordinator at Bookstr. If she is not reading or writing, she can be found traveling, painting, or baking cookies.

Sundress Reads: Review of My Arabic Breakfast

A cover of a book, showing the top half of a silver, circular, engraved platter with various Levantine foods such as mint tea, zaatar, and olives arranged in a circle. A plate of sunny-side-up eggs sit in the middle. The title, "My Arabic Breakfast," is written in Arabic and English letters against a bright yellow background. The author and illustrators' names, Yasmeen Fakhereddin and Noor Naqaweh is written beneath in white Arabic letters.

Written by Palestinian-Canadian educator, Yasmeen Fakhereddin, and illustrated by Syrian-Palestinian artist, Noor Naqaweh, My Arabic Breakfast (Zingo Ringo, 2024) is a bilingual board book that introduces young learners to Arabic. With vibrant illustrations of Levantine breakfast foods, and accompanied by English translations and pronunciation guides, this book helps children build their vocabulary, pattern recognition, and numeracy skills, all while spotlighting Palestinian culture.

Naqaweh’s hand-drawn illustrations make My Arabic Breakfast a visual feast for the eyes. From the first page, readers are welcomed to the dining table teeming with flavorful Levantine dishes. Each food item is drawn in mouthwatering detail—sesame seed-coated falafel, labneh cheese balls doused in olive oil, and mini filled flatbreads with steam wafting off them. The liveliness of the dining room and the warm, bright colors throughout the book remind readers of home, the feeling that they have a seat at the table. Another highlight of My Arabic Breakfast is phonetic Arabic spellings and English translations, which make bilingual learning easy. Many immigrant and interracial families hope that their children stay connected to their cultural heritage. Fakhereddin, as a Palestinian-Canadian and parent herself, understands this, and so aims to build children’s confidence in Arabic while introducing bits of Levantine culture in a way that remains accessible to children.

The first, full-page spread inside My Arabic Breakfast. It shows a yellow dining room, three brown dining chairs, and a dining table with a variety of Levantine and Palestinian foods. The left-hand side contains a jar of jam, a plate of cucumber and tomato slices, a bowl of olives, a basket of pita bread, twin bowls of zaatar and olive oil, bowls of fava bean foul, and a platter of falafels. In the center are a plate of mini filled pitas on an Al-Khalili pottery plate, a pan of six sunny-side-up eggs, salt and pepper shakers, an assorted platter of cheese, and a bowl of labneh cheese submerged in olive oil. On the right side of the table is a red tea kettle with steam coming out of the spout, a sugar bowl and plate of mint leaves, five glasses of mint tea, a plate with donut-shaped date-filled cookies, a plate of watermelon slices, and a tissue box with a tatreez embroidered cover. On the wall hangs a painting of a green olive branch laden with black olives. The bottom of the page says "welcome" in English on the left side and "ah-lan wa sah-lan" in Arabic on the right.

What makes My Arabic Breakfast unique is that it is entirely Palestinian-made, from the author and illustrator to the publisher, Zingo Ringo Books. Throughout the book, Fakhereddin and Naqaweh highlight their Palestinian roots through small artistic details. The opening spread, for instance, depicts a platter of watermelon slices on the table and a painting of an olive branch, two enduring symbols that represent the cultural identity of Palestinians and the connection to their land. The plate with the mini flatbreads on page 4, and the bowls of zaatar and olive oil on page 7 feature Palestinian pottery designs from the Al Khalil region, while page 8 showcases a traditional Palestinian date-filled cookie. On the last page, where all the food has been eaten, there remains on the table a tissue box with tatreez (embroidery), a traditional Palestinian craft. The book ends with one final, subtle detail—a painting with the word sahteen (“bon appetit”) in Levantine Arabic. Food, the practices and habits around food, hold personal and cultural significance. It is a means for communities to retain their cultural identity. My Arabic Breakfast is not only a language-learning book, but also a love letter to Palestine: culture and people. Through the recurring motifs of Palestinian foods and traditions, Fakhereddin and Naqaweh convey a message of resilience and pride in their heritage. In this way, My Arabic Breakfast is a message to the children of Palestine and the Palestinian diaspora, encouraging future generations to remember and celebrate their identity.

My Arabic Breakfast stands out because it is a board book primarily geared towards bilingual children from the Arabic-speaking diaspora. The significance of Fakhereddin and Naqaweh’s book lies in the mirror it holds up for children of Palestinian and Levantine origin, reflecting their heritage, cultural practices, and everyday experiences, and affirming their sense of identity and belonging. A persistent issue in mainstream English-language children’s books is the misrepresentation and underrepresentation of people of color, Arabs in particular. Even in recent years, the number of children’s stories written by or about Arabs remains very limited. For this reason, My Arabic Breakfast is a meaningful contribution to children’s literature. They can practice recognizing and naming foods from home and learn basic numbers and words in both Arabic and English. At the same time, the visuals render the learning experience all the more engaging.

A spread of two pages inside My Arabic Breakfast. The left page has a purple background with illustrations of three falafels in the center. The left-hand side has the number 3 at the top and the word "falafel" at the bottom in English. The right-hand side has the corresponding Arabic numerals and words. The right page has The right side is a reddish-pink background with four bowls of fava bean foul in the center. The left-hand side has the number 4 at the top and the word "foul" in English, with the corresponding numeral and word in Arabic on the right side.

My Arabic Breakfast is also a delightful read for non-Arabic speakers, helping them develop cultural awareness and appreciation for diverse communities. The book paints an authentic picture of Levantine culture and cuisine, allowing for an immersive educational experience. Children can discover a wide variety of dishes—zaatar, shai bil nana (mint tea), and fava bean foul, among others—and also learn Arabic words and numerals. As I leafed through the book, I found myself captivated by the vivid artwork and the elegance of Arabic script. With each page, my fingers traced the words, following the English pronunciation closely. Even as an adult reader, My Arabic Breakfast offered me an introduction to the richness of Palestinian and Levantine culture. Reading this book reminded me of the food and cultural practices in my own family as a Bangladeshi-American Muslim, of the joy of visiting friends and sharing traditional foods, and of the deep sense of togetherness. Moreover, reading My Arabic Breakfast made me reflect on the importance of diverse and inclusive books for children. Growing up in a small town in the American South, I was always curious about my heritage and mother tongue. At school, opportunities to explore this curiosity were rare. Thus, the presence of books like My Arabic Breakfast in libraries and bookstores is essential. They encourage children to learn about and cherish their identities. Addressed to young learners, My Arabic Breakfast is all about celebrating and maintaining one’s roots.

A South Asian woman smiling and sitting on a green couch. She has black hair, half lying over her right shoulder and half down her back, and is wearing a wine-red turtleneck. Behind her are two closed window curtains, one light blue and floral print, and the other solid teal.

Tara Rahman (she/her) is a Sundress editorial intern with a BA in English Language and Literature from Smith College and an MSc in Global Development from SOAS, University of London. She is also a recent graduate of the Columbia Publishing Course in Oxford, UK. With a strong interest in culture, identity, and global history, her personal writing often focuses on intersectionality and the untold stories and experiences of marginalized communities. In her free time, she enjoys reading literary and YA fiction, watching anime, and spending time with her tripod cat, Tuntuni.

Sundress Reads: Review of That Same Dream

I have never read a collection like Jennifer Overfield’s That Same Dream (Glacial Speed Press 2025). The poems, as beautiful and melancholic as they are, comprise only one aspect of a threefold project. They become deeper and more complex when experienced alongside the woodblock print of the cover, designed by Lucinda Cobley, and the musical accompaniment composed by Bruce Chao. To fully experience the poetry of Jennifer Overfield, a reading of the project, alongside the dynamic sound collage can be found on YouTube, released by DistroKid. However, the written elements of That Same Dream, despite their foundational role in the TSD Collective project, still hold their own quiet mystery.

Reading the text brought to mind many images, which is no doubt a result of Overfield’s own use of metaphor and imagery, alongside the overall evocative nature of her poetry. This montage of pictures compounds an overall sense of comfortable isolation, like a weekend spent hiding from the world with a lover. The collection lacks complex descriptors, as it relies on the reader’s associations with each illustrated fragment. The third poem in particular,: ‘A dream. / A piece of glass.   A dream that blew / my dress.’ allows proximity to the dream. A piece of glass and a dress blur together to create an amorphous and unique reading experience for the reader. One that could be interpreted as comfort, nostalgia, melancholia and beyond. As I read, I found myself reacquainted with an old sense of both loneliness and serenity.

In a way reminiscent of Sergei Eisenstein’s theory of montage, which combines and juxtaposes shots to produce narrative meaning, impressions, or associations of ideas for the viewer, Overfield’s poetry similarly juxtaposes images to generate meaning for the reader. Each image imprints something on the next, and as the collection circles back around to the beginning again, they all gain in depth. And I do mean this literally—That Same Dream is a wonder of traditional handset type methods, a limited edition: pure white Japanese Kozo and Pulp paper running in one slip and folded for each page. Each hand-bound copy offers a platform for Overfield’s poems, each one soft and almost skeletal—the lines resemble black ink ribs against the fine paper. It is a collection of marked contrast. Each image striking and indicative of the next, each letter a rebellion against the paper it resides upon, each moment of unfolding pages subverts the way we are taught to read.

With mentions of God throughout the collection, Overfield stirs a sensation of divine listlessness onto the page. ‘God is a grown man’, ‘the ocean was a word God kept / repeating’, ‘getting God to forgive me’; the ‘God’ of Overfield’s text is always capitalised, always male. Familiar, in the way that divinity seems to brush against our lives, whether or not it is invited. Yet this God is strange, an aspect of Overfield’s prose that stood out to me compared to the rest. This is not because he exerts influence over the narrator or holds visible authority over the poems, but because his divine presence seems to lack intention or intellect—because he seems lost.

The recording, a melodious, almost insidious experience of the poem, is available on YouTube. At a thirteen-minute runtime, the reading adds a far greater depth to the poems than a reader might understand on their first listen. Compiled audio of a dog barking, fire crackling, radio static and many other distorted sounds accompany the poetry readings. Monotonous and eerie, at times almost extraterrestrial, the reading bleeds through into the divine implications of the collection. Although every image is undoubtedly human and familiar, often simple in its description, they hide a myriad of disguised sensations. For instance, in the tenth poem:

…is either light coming through the open door

or you

  in the bathroom in an open shirt.

These scattered phrases share the intimacy of the narrator with ‘you’. They show the vulnerability of the addressee, with the images creating a montage evocative of ‘light coming through the open door’. A luminescent collation of hope, comfort, openness, and reassurance.

Amidst themes of growth, companionship, dreams and divinity, Overfield’s narrator takes up an introspective murmur, such a soft quiet that I felt I should make my breathing quiet, for fear of disturbing each tender thought as I read. The poet demonstrates a deep understanding of descriptive restraint and lexical precision. And with so few words, That Same Dream depicts so much.

To learn more about the TSD Collective and hear about the project in the words of the creators themselves, visit their website.

A woman looks left over a wide river on a bright afternoon.

Rachel Bulman (she/her) holds a BA in English and Creative Writing as well as an MA in Publishing from the University of Exeter, specialising in interactive and children’s fiction. Her written work has appeared in The Book of Choices, Velvet Fields, and Exeposé, among others. Find her on Instagram @worm.can.read, through her online portfolio, or ask the bridge troll who taught him his riddles three.

Sundress Reads: Review of The Birth of Undoing

Sundress Logo is black and white featuring a bespectacled sheep sitting on a stool and drinking tea while reading.
The Birth of Undoing Cover. Black background with a ripe red pomegranate and seeds laying out on a table behind "The Birth of Undoing poems" in white print.

The Birth of Undoing (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, 2025) by Emily Patterson is an unapologetic exploration into infertility, motherhood, spirituality and nature, and survival on the quietest of days. This poetry collection moves through the body and its “failures,” through life in longing and labor, and through marriage and early motherhood. It emphasizes the importance of living an imperfect life and savoring hard moments as much as the whimsical ones. These poems beg the reader to sit with their difficult emotions and discomfort; while they don’t offer answers to the emotions that so many women will feel throughout our lives, particularly surrounding motherhood, they do make you feel heard, and maybe even less alone, as we all move through a life we cannot.

One of the collection’s central themes is infertility and the frustration, grief, and anger that accompany it. Patterson describes the heartbreak of feeling like your body has been created for one thing, reproduction, and if you can’t fulfill that purpose, constantly asking yourself: What’s wrong with me? Why is this happening? Why are my prayers being ignored? In “At the Garden Center on Mother’s Day,” Patterson writes, “See, this is what I thought it meant / to be a woman: one who bears, / not one who wants” (21). This devastating juxtaposition between bearing and wanting is crucial to the emotional turmoil the speaker feels before they turn to fertility treatment, presumably in vitro fertilization (IVF), a process that not only requires hope but also sacrifice. Sacrifice of money, time, the body itself. Even sacrifice that the speaker’s partner has to endure with her, including nightly injections. In “Night Class with Gonal-F,” Patterson describes one of these recurring evenings, writing: “On the side / street where he waits, idling in the old Jeep––second pen in / hand, still cool from the fridge. The twin bruises, blooming as / I walk back to class” (24). Through countless months of yearning for answered prayers, the speaker reveals a pregnancy is finally at hand, but despite the overwhelming joy, there is also a crippling sense of doubt. The poems in this section of the collection balance on an unknown precipice as the speaker dares to ask herself: Will my body finally give birth to the living spirit I have so long yearned for?

In the months of pregnancy, Patterson wrestles with the idea of motherhood, trying to fit herself into the image she imagined. “I am no mother / goddess, cheeks serene / as a winter haloed / in gilt,” she writes in “Self-Portrait as Not the Giantess,” continuing with,

“Like her,

I go barefoot in the late spring

heat, yet my ankles—fat and pink

among thick green—

are nothing like her slender

soles.” (32)

Despite the heart beating inside her, she still feels disconnected from the great mythology of motherhood, a concept many have grappled with for centuries.

But finally, the birth announces a new daughter into the world, complete with ten perfect fingers and toes, the speaker is sure to count. Here, we meet the title poem, “The Birth of Undoing,” which emphasizes how becoming a mother is not one singular moment during labor, but a collection of feelings, sounds, and pains, tears and joy. And how, as your daughter grows, you come to see the world through her innocent eyes and find divinity in the world’s simplest moments. It’s these moments where gratitude and awe weave themselves into the poems; gratitude for a grandmother who takes care of her brand-new grandchild on Mondays and Tuesdays, for a husband who has made the journey survivable, and for a life that took years to plan but arrived so unexpectedly. And even in these moments of bliss, depression, postpartum, or simply the dark cloud that seems to follow the speaker through life, continues to make itself known. Described in “Walking in the Rain I Wonder When Postpartum Depression Becomes Just Regular Depression,” Patterson writes about how “this grey haze fades and comes back again” (43). Still, instead of giving in to that darkness, the speaker has learned “how to walk without watching for rain. / To let go of the maps we draw for ourselves. / To let go of what we think the weather should be” (43). Speaking on this matter unapologetically is crucial to breaking the stigma around this topic and paves the way for community among new mothers.

Even while broaching the heaviest topics, Patterson grounds her metaphors in tangible things, like food and nature, throughout The Birth of Undoing. In the same way she describes Cape Elizabeth as “cups / of clam chowder, thin onion rings, cold pickle coins,” she compares faith to pomegranate seeds, like a “supple forest: every fruit ripening / just out of reach.” In “The Only Constant,” where the speaker continues to doubt their worth as a mother, she writes,

“The thing is, you forgive me constantly:

missing mittens, blackened bread,

the edge in my voice that reveals

too much, the way I am still learning

how to forgive myself.” (58)

Patterson does not glorify nor vilify motherhood; she instead embraces all of its woes and priceless moments of celebration, laying it all on the page, which is what makes this book so poignant. She allows both suffering and joy to coexist, leading to a collection that feels devastatingly honest and encourages its readers to become undone in a way that makes us realize the parts that make us whole.

The Birth of Undoing is available from Sheila-Na-Gig Editions

White woman smiles at camera in selfie format. She has brown hair and is wearing a blue denim dress.

Elizabeth “Lizzy” DiGrande is a graduate student in Emerson College’s Publishing and Writing program, where she also serves as a Transformational Leaders Fellow and Writing Assistant for the Emerson Grad Life Blog. She is on the board of Boston’s Women’s National Book Association and is passionate about amplifying women’s voices in publishing. Originally from New Jersey, she now resides in Boston and can often be found perusing the city’s public libraries or exploring new restaurants. She hopes to build a career as both a food writer and literary agent championing female-identifying authors.

Sundress Reads: Review of Lullaby of Love: Selected Poems

Sundress Reads black-and-white logo with a sheep sitting on a stool next to the words "Sundress Reads." The sheep is wearing glasses and holding a cup filled with a hot drink in one hoof and holding an open book in the other.
A desk with an open laptop, a lamp with a white shade, a document, a pencil holder filled with pens, a mouse, and desk decorations overlook a large window. There are also plants perched on the wall above the desk and glasses on the sill of the window. The overall room is dark and the light outside from the window is the main thing that illuminates the room. Outside the window, it is grey and there is a large tree with branches. There is a distant house behind the branches and a path leading out of the yard. The ground outside the window is a light muted yellow. The words "Lullaby of Love" is typed at the bottom of the image and underneath that in smaller text is "Selected Poems." The author's name "Rebecca Winning" is in large font at the top of the image.

Lullaby of Love: Selected Poems (2025) by Rebecca Winning consists of poems that explore various shades of love and emotions. Winning writes beautifully to take a moment to appreciate the little things in life. The poems are marked with vivid imagery, personification, and metaphors, allowing a glimpse into Winning’s personal reflection of life and the world.

There are many recurring themes throughout Lullaby of Love, including love, hope, loneliness, patience, infidelity, daylight, darkness, and nature. Winning beautifully creates these stories, allowing the reader to visualize each line in great detail and live in that poem for a moment. Winning ties every day tasks and the nature to human feelings, showing how the world and emotions are reflections of each other. Whether Winning is exploring the feelings of infidelity when one is writing a letter to another or the feeling of loneliness after seeing a UFO, each poem is created with great care and fleshed out with beautiful details of the emotions each speaker experiences.

Weather plays a significant role in mirroring human feelings, especially to convey feelings of love. For example, snow is used often to describe warmth and love for another. When “snow dizzies down / in a hush of relentless joy,” the snow is a mirror for the love the speaker feels for another (Winning 59). The speaker “will remember the light and wonder / of loving [them], bringing in wood,” which shows how they will associate snow as this beautiful cozy feeling when remembering loving someone (Winning 59). Winning also explores how two people “were never prepared / for the weather,” drawing a direct comparison to how two people were never prepared to experience the burning emotion of love (Winning 43). And just like how love can become “a blizzard in [one’s] head,” snow can become unpredictably less cozy with the added variable of wind, turning it into a blizzard (Winning 43).

Other extremes of love are explored, such as heartbreak and closure, are delved into, such as in “Fall Housecleaning”. When the speaker cleans up their house, they are actually sweeping their feelings for their former lover “out with a vengeance / and [letting] new sunlight fly around the rooms” (Winning 23). By the end of the poem, the speaker is able to gain closure when a left-behind kazoo “brings the whispers / of strange comfort” (Winning 23). Winning beautifully transitions the act of keeping a seemingly plain object to being able to finally heal one’s heart.

Personification is a steady device used throughout Lullaby of Love to further allow readers to experience peace and take a moment to enjoy the present. Winning writes,

on your couch I learn a dreamless sleep,

and when the window yawns to a morning

all mystical and chaste,

even I awaken into grace. (11)

Here she compares how even windows wake up to slow and peaceful mornings. On a daily basis, many of us do not usually focus on the sound of clocks ticking; however, in the stillness of mornings, we become aware of it “ticking its heart out” (Winning 25). The use of personification throughout Winning’s writing helps readers to stay in the present moment and take notice of everything.

Winning also uses the formatting of stanzas and punctuation to emphasize fear and panic. “2020 Burning” is set during the time of covid and wildfire season. The short stanzas in the poem demonstrate the panic breaking through each line like how one would breathe faster when panic takes over emotions. However, as the poem reads on, ellipsis takes hold with “and yet… / and yet…” like when one takes deep calming breaths to slow down their heart rate. In this case, the ellipsis is a transition from fear to hope. This moment is when the poem’s tone takes a turn. At the end, the periods after “I need to stop. / Breathe.” actually feels like a physical breath the reader is taking with the speaker (Winning 78).

Winning is further able to convey panic when she writes short lines with only commas separating them and they mirror short breaths of air like when one is drowning and trying to gulp it in. She writes,

The glow of my computer

brings bad news in waves,

another death every minute,

dozens lost every hour,

thousands more sickened,

struggling to breathe,

struggling to climb out

of that blue wave

then drowning.

Drowning. (79)

With the one word, “drowning,” the silence becomes loud even through words on a page. Winning is able to create this format that channels the multitude of emotions the speaker feels directly into the readers.

In Lullaby of Love, Winning explores various human emotions and describes them in great creative detail using nature and objects as mirrors. These poems create a ‘lullaby of love’ because they all come together to build a unique, soothing melody of feelings where the reader can laser in on details that are usually overlooked. I, too, am able to take a moment to just breathe and appreciate each small element, like the sun draping over plants or the jangling of keys. It feels like a breath of fresh air to fully live in each poem with the speaker and author, and I am taking what I learned to treasure the present moment in my own life.

Lullaby of Love: Selected Poems is available on Bookshop.org

A close-up of an Asian woman with long brown hair and front bangs smiling at the camera. She is wearing a light tan cardigan and a cream-colored collar shirt with a navy blue and red ribbon tied in the front. An empty street with two parked cars is behind her and she is standing in front of a pink curtain and green hedge.

Marian Kohng (she/her/hers) is a proud Korean American and an Editorial Intern at Sundress Publications and a Traffic Copy Editor at a local news station in Tucson, AZ. She also has a Bachelor’s in Neuroscience and Cognitive Science and a Master’s in Marketing. She loves to get lost in a good book and will read just about anything, including the back of the shampoo bottle.

Sundress Reads: Review of It’s No Fun Anymore

Sundress Reads black & white logo of a bespectacled sheep sitting on a stool with a cup of tea and a book.
Cover of book shows "It's No Fun Anymore" in white blocky letters on a long driveway leading to an old-style farmhouse in the distance. The background colors are red and black.

Brittany Micka-Foos’s debut short story collection, It’s No Fun Anymore (Apprentice House Press, 2025), is a necessary culmination of raw characters and stories that stare directly into the face of womanhood and the weight of quiet tragedies we’re forced to carry along the way. Across eight stories spanning just over one hundred pages, Micka-Foos effortlessly captures the anger, loss, yearning, and envy that so often accompany adulthood in an unforgiving society.

Have you ever heard someone admit an unpopular feeling you thought only you experienced? Reading this collection felt full of those moments, like the feeling of no longer recognizing yourself in the mirror and wondering when that shift happened. Micka-Foos’s intimate honesty illustrates moments that are painful to read but resonate so deeply

This feeling is illustrated so beautifully in the title story “It’s No Fun Anymore,” which follows a new mother attending a comic convention with her husband and newborn baby for the first time since giving birth. She recounts how different, how powerful, she felt the last time she attended:

“I remember the soccer mom with the severe bob from my last time here, and how quickly she’d covered her son’s eyes when I stepped into the elevator as Red Sonja. The feeling of her gaze boring into me, that silent accusation, the hot molten core of her stare. I fixed my gaze straight ahead at the elevator doors, smiling at myself all the way down. What else could I do?” (Micka-Foos 34)

Reclaiming a sense of womanhood and individuality after they’ve been swallowed by motherhood is one of many complex themes in this collection. Micka-Foos crafts a commentary on how society views motherhood, and women more broadly, as a thankless job. Similarly, in “Border Crossings,” if you are “just” a mother, you’re not doing enough, but conversely, if you are a mother, the naïve and innocent beauty of the girl you once were has been forever tainted. Now you have saggy skin, or you can be neurotic and paranoid; you lose your confidence and innate sexiness.

This theme weaves directly into others: feeling lost, invisible, or vindictive in a marriage; recognizing the complicated resentment toward younger women, the one catching a married man’s eye in a coffee shop or wearing an outfit that proudly accentuates the tight skin of her stomach, the way yours once did. There’s also the yearning to go back to the way things were, or maybe that the truth, the reality you now live, became evident much sooner. Would you do things the same way? Would you cherish one last glance in the mirror before leaving for the night?

Other stories take these interwoven ideas of beauty and womanhood one step further, exploring how the physical body, and threats to this sanctuary through reproductive health or outside harm, can completely morph our sense of self. In “From the Waist Down,” the story opens: “We’re in the hospital again, me and my wayward womb,” (Micka-Foos 39). As the main character waits to go into surgery, forcing a smile for her four-year-old daughter, she recalls the day she left the hospital after giving birth: “I knew then, my body didn’t belong to me anymore. Something had been taken from me” (Micka-Foos 45).

Being a woman, Micka-Foos reminds us, means living with an innate fear every day. A fear of being harmed, of being sexualized, of not being sexualized when we want to be, of taking on the burden of aging parents and infantile babies, of forcing smiles in hospital waiting rooms while we prepare to have our uteruses mutilated or removed or examined by gloved hands and cold metal. We’re forced to feel like we must reinvent ourselves, make ourselves a new, more appealing version that can appeal to the masses, so others remember how they used to look at us, and how we even used to look at ourselves. We could spend forever trying to resurrect versions of ourselves that no longer exist, trying to remember the taut muscles in our thighs before they grew ornery and prickled with cellulite.

Micka-Foos has a natural ability to transform the most personal details into a universal work of art. And while reading this collection was like holding a cracked mirror up to all my most vulnerable imperfections, I never wanted it to end. With each of the eight stories, I felt like I could follow each character on an insurmountable journey for another 300 pages. I understood their motivations, their hunger and desires, their fears and loneliness, all within the confines of the ten pages they have to tell us their story. If you struggle with wanting to be remembered for the greatness you once held, the greatness you once felt, this is the collection for you.

It’s No Fun Anymore was published by Apprentice House Press and is available at Bookshop.org.

White woman smiles at camera in selfie format. She has brown hair and is wearing a blue denim dress.

Elizabeth “Lizzy” DiGrande is a graduate student in Emerson College’s Publishing and Writing program, where she also serves as a Transformational Leaders Fellow and Writing Assistant for the Emerson Grad Life Blog. She is on the board of Boston’s Women’s National Book Association and is passionate about amplifying women’s voices in publishing. Originally from New Jersey, she now resides in Boston and can often be found perusing the city’s public libraries or exploring new restaurants. She hopes to build a career as both a food writer and literary agent championing female-identifying authors.

Sundress Reads: Review of Blind to the Prairie

Sundress Reads black and white logo featuring a bespectacled sheep drinking tea, reading a book, and sitting on a stool.
Book cover of Blind to the Prairie featuring blues and yellows, including an illustrated farm as seen from above.

Blind to the Prairie (Bottlecap Press, 2025) by Tate Lewis-Carroll is a slow and tender reflection on seeing. In this collection of haiku, Lewis-Carroll captures the rhythms of the Midwestern landscape, capturing the very moments of its emptiness and subtle abundance. The chapbook invites the reader to slow down and notice the thin seam between perception and disappearance, in contrast to the fast-paced, modernized world around us. Through astonishing precision and modesty, Lewis-Carroll transforms the ordinary scenes of fields and geese into revelations of mindfulness, weaved between the philosophies of to see and to be seen.

Blind to the Prairie might appear deceptively small, yet each “breath-length” poem expands into an entire ecosystem of sound and silence. The chapbook opens with a preface in which Lewis-Carroll elaborates on their belief in the connection between haiku, nature, and peace of the mind. It reads like a manifesto, saying, “Our bowls are too easily filled. Our bones have become too dense for flight.” Haiku, a Japanese poetry form interwoven with the emptiness of the natural world, serves as a practice of unburdening, of learning to be filled with nothing. That philosophy reverberates through the collection, where the poet’s eye does not seek meaning in the prairie, so much as dissolve into it.

Early poems establish Lewis-Carroll’s blend of humor and careful, creative observations, reading,

“spring recital—

the clarinet section

wets their reeds.” ( Lewis-Carroll 3)

Through a simple metaphor, Lewis-Carroll makes the ephemeral tangible, depicting spring as a performance of lively beings rather than a season of unmovables. Similarly, they also draw the stagnant into the living through seven, simply syllables: “morning mist— / my neighbor’s silo comes and goes” (3), whereby personifying a man-made to be transient as fog, Lewis-Carroll captivates us into a world where the economic, sturdy beings are humbled to the natural world, creating a harmonious collaboration between what has been perceived as nonintersecting. Later, in a delightfully wry turn, “storming— / sunny / on TV” (4), the poet captures the absurd disjunction between mediated weather and lived weather, creating a funny contrast between the storm outside and the screen’s detached forecast.

These brief poems, though light in touch, are deeply anchored in observation. Blind to the Prairie documents a world in motion yet perpetually still. In “beyond fields, more fields,” Lewis-Carroll encapsulates the endlessness of the Midwest, the wandering of infinity where the flatness is perceived as both a physical landscape and a philosophical stance. Here, the repetition of “fields” suggests monotony and wonder, in which Lewis-Carroll sends forward an invitation to see sameness as an art of infinite variation.

Midway through the book, the haibun “White Prairie Fringed Orchid” acts as centerpiece, rooting the entire collection. Written in prose, it begins as a travelogue through Illinois farmland and turns into a reflection on the effects of environmental neglect. The narrator observes “litter glitters in sunlight among the overgrowth of clovers and poverty grass,” before discovering the endangered white prairie fringed orchid, framed as a delicate survivor in a field of monocropping corn. When the poet calls to the farmer, asking him to name this rare bloom, the farmer replies, “Weed.” That single word sets up the book’s tension, crafting and navigating the distance between human attention and voluntary blindness. The haibun does a great job of setting the scene and theme of the entire chapbook— which revolves around the often neglected details of nature. The piece prose highlights the theme of environmental pollution and contamination, weaved in between the scenes of nature appreciation.

This haibun recalls the ethical waves of Bashō’s journeys, yet it is distinctly American in its landscape and critique. The Midwest, with its “27 million acres of Illinois farmland” (10), becomes a mirror for human detachment from the natural world. Lewis-Carroll writes without scolding, and instead layers the piece with a blend of irony and tenderness: even in describing environmental destruction, there remains a tone of gratitude for what survives.

Lewis-Carroll’s language is spare yet sophisticated. Each poem functions under a haiku lens, bending light just enough to reveal the subtle textures of daily life. There is restraint in their use of sound with soft alliterations and consonants that mimic the rhythm of breath and the soft, capricious winds of nature. Their attention to line breaks is also impeccable with intentional designs of pauses. Take “ball of twine— / holding nothing together but itself (11)” as an example. The line break embodies the poem’s meaning: a taut suspension that almost, but not quite, holds.

Blind to the Prairie stands out for its craftsmanship. Bottlecap Press’s presentation of a crisp layout and generous white space, along with the luminous cover painting by Harold Gregor, all supports a minimalist aesthetic. The design and aesthetic of this book feels like an extension of its content, the sprouting of profoundness in the unassuming.

These poems in Blind to the Prairie will make you look twice at roadside weeds, moonlight and the cadence of your own breath. They restore wonder to the everyday and ask what it means to see truly. In a culture that moves too quickly, this collection offers the potency of stillness as a form of resistance and pensive, astute observation.

Blind to the Prairie is available from Bottlecap Press

Penny Wei is from Shanghai and Massachusetts. She can be seen on Dialogist, The Weight Journal, Inflectionism, Headmistress Press and elsewhere. She has been recognized by The Word Works, Longfellow House and more. She loves cultural journalism.