Sarah Giragosian’s Mother Octopus (Middle Creek Publishing, 2024) is a moving poetry collection that explores themes of queer intimacy, consumption, environmental collapse, phonology, lineage, and motherhood.

The collection, winner of the 2023 Halcyon Poetry Prize, first embraces readers with a haibun, “Saltonstall Residency, Ithaca, NY Haibun.” This poem is abundant in intricate, compact imagery that creates and describes the world in Mother Octopus, a world riddled with loss and grief. The haiku portion acts as a focal point: “A mother’s vast tongue / licks her calf into being, / flush with a new idea” (Giragosian 7). Giragosian highlights the bond between mother and calf while intertwining the themes of nature and the creation/degradation of environmental health. This poem, along with Giragosian’s dedication to her late mother, lingered with me throughout the collection, reminding me how deeply rooted mothers are in our ways of thinking, even as we grow independent.

A poem that especially resonated with me during my read was “Diet and Feeding Behavior of the Hagfish, Practicing Witch of the Sea,” which focuses on a hagfish’s brutality. Initially, I assumed Giragosian was writing on queer intimacy, displaying how romanticism was lost in this act of love between “her” and “I” in the poem. The speaker describes how the hagfish has “—evolved to dine and dash—” (Giragosian 57). This metaphor serves as a way to compare sapphic love to the heartlessness the hagfish has upon its prey. However, there’s a self-reflection of grief underlying here; the hagfish may serve as the speaker’s grief, devouring them from the inside out. This can be seen in the first stanza, which reads:

This hagfish devours from the inside out, wounded or compromised creatures, similarly to how grief devours humans. From my own life, I’ve experienced how grief forces one to rest and be introspective. The line “Your calm will be your counterattack” (Giragosian 57) left me feeling introspective, as I recall moments of calm and near silence have been the best opponent to depression during grief. It’s safe to say this poem has many layers and in fact encapsulates this collection as a whole in some aspects.

Returning to the theme of sapphic romance, my mind immediately remembers “Gift of Ammonite.” This poem is formally playful, almost mimicking the tides rushing back to shore— an unbreakable and natural force. This connection contradicts some of the stigma in LGBTQ+ relationships, as some claim it to be unnatural. Giragosian’s form validates the relationship and the connection, emphasizing how the speaker’s love is a force that cannot be stopped. The poem utilizes enjambment at the end of lines and stanzas, allowing it to run smoothly. Beyond form, “Gift of Ammonite” explores a relationship between two (presumably female) lovers, their profound longing for one another, and the “eons” spent waiting for the right time. I found Giragosian’s ending especially soul-crushing: “Listen for ruptures in time signature. / Wait the way you waited for her love to arrive” (62). These lines are indefinite, as they end the poem with a period, rather than continuing the pattern of enjambment and flowing seamlessly into the next poem, demonstrating both the confidence in the relationship and one another, as well as the understanding that these lovers are content to wait as long as necessary to be together. This poem was overwhelmingly confident and analytical of their love, which was refreshing and uplifting. I found this tone was abundant in the collection, and when discussing sapphic love, it was extremely validating. The vulnerability queer folk experience in everyday life is obvious, but sometimes the victories aren’t as vocalized. Mother Octopus balances both, making for an insightful read that forced me to reflect on relationships and hardships I’ve experienced at the hands of some who might not be understanding.

“Promenade à Deux” reminds me of growing up in a place where queer people are misrepresented and misunderstood. Being a dancer, I knew this poem would discuss a partnership, dance, or walk. Learning about the scorpion’s courtship while comparing interactions the speaker’s experienced with men was amazingly insightful and intricate. Growing up in rural North Carolina, I have heard—and experienced firsthand—the pressure, microaggressions, and hatred from people in a town I was to call “home.” Giragosian writes so visually, with the alliteration and personification guiding me through the piece; I could truly feel this poem and all it had to offer.

Mother Octopus was intriguing, compelling, and captivating. Giragosian created worlds within each poem that transformed my thoughts on personal experiences. With themes of grief, queer love, femininity, and environmental collapse, I truly believe there’s something for everyone in this collection. As I look back on my reads of this collection, I’m inspired to play with form and personification to propel my writing and branch out in how my writing looks and reads. Giragosian and the collection are a testament to resilience, using poetry as the vessel to express these experiences.

Mother Octopus is available from Middle Creek Publishing

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Caroline Eliza is a poet and writer from Asheville, North Carolina, currently completing her degree in Writing, Literature, and Publishing at Emerson College with minors in Pre-Law and Poetry. Her creative and academic work explores the intersection of poetry and movement, often blurring the lines between the written word and physical expression. Beyond the page, Caroline finds joy in crocheting and dancing, grounding her artistic life in tactile practices and performance. She will graduate in December 2025 and plans to further her education and continue exploring the connections between art, advocacy, and embodiment.

In The Years of Blood (Fordham University Press, 2025), Adédayọ̀ Agarau boldly walks us through a landscape of grief, pointing us to anguish, yes, but also to beauty. This multilingual and reflective poetry collection is full of hauntings—images of death and dreams of family members finding safety. The speaker here is never alone, which can sometimes feel nightmarish and other times act as a reminder to hold onto hope. Agarau honors Nigeria with every poem, both bearing witness to reality and conjuring a future desired by every person who calls this place home.

While scenes of brutality saturate many pages within The Years of Blood, Agarau writes with humanity. The collection starts with “Wind,” a prose-block poem from the perspective of a speaker with anxiety. Agarau writes,

This imagining comes after the speaker lists other possibilities of what could be—all depictions of violence enacted on close family members. The speaker here so strongly wants, needs, to feel connected to his loved ones, even as a ghost. He dreams himself as the wind—perpetual and permeating all spaces, especially home.

Agarau’s unbreakable bond to where he is from elevates The Years of Blood apart from other collections, all the while remaining intimate and sacred. “Boys who never die” is a list-like ode poem to the three-dimensionality of men and boys in Ìbàdàn that I found especially moving. Not only is there an entire stanza naming over twenty boys, but Agarau shows us their hearts, their minds, and their souls. He describes “Boys who dance / around plastic chairs,” “Boys who gaze at the moon,” and “Boys who call me friend” (25). Even as we readers are introduced to “Boys who carry scars their fathers give them” we also meet “Boys the hope of a chameleon— / always changing, always changing” (Agarau 26-27). There is multiplicity in this community, full of good, trouble, beauty, and pain. I can feel Agarau’s love so strongly, even when the poetry is written “in a language wet with loss” (15). There are few better ways to honor your home more than to write about it, with full honesty.

Religion is also a prevalent theme throughout these pages, with many poems to or about God/gods. In “It begins with gratitude & ends in rage,” Agarau expresses thankfulness, “I am grateful that I have been given this day, dear Lord” (49). While addressing God here, for most of the poem, the speaker contemplates his lineage, particularly his relationship to his father. Slowly moving towards the rage indicated in the title, the speaker can’t help but compare his (birth) father to his (religious) Father. He asks,

Lord, shepherd, father, king…God is depicted and realized in many forms. As this poem sits around the middle of the collection, I take particular note of Agarau’s questioning of his own name, which is listed in the book’s Index as “A Yorùbá name given to sons of royal descent…[meaning] ‘The crown has morphed into joy’” (89). This existential self-reflection is not only striking but is also deeply connected to Agarau’s spirituality. Just over ten pages prior, “Fine boy writes a poem about anxiety” ends with another arresting mention of God that also reflects the connection between family, faith, self, and safety. Agarau writes, “your god is everything / that lets you come inside. / mother, lover” (38). While this time referencing mother instead of father, the speaker is noting how our lineage, parents, and ancestors are our safety and home.

Tenderness book-ends the collection. In the last poem, “Litany in which my father returns safely at night,” there is no direct mention of the wind from the opening poem, but many instances of sound that draw our attention to the air: “a small decibel of music escaping someone’s window” and “a dog barks” (Agarau 86). What the speaker hears directly from people, however, is what Agarau uses to guide us towards his gentle wish:

Like a skilled cinematographer, Agarau holds his hands up, making a camera with his thumbs and index fingers. Slowly, he narrows us readers into the heart of the poem, his father, the addressee of this litany, this prayer. At the last line, of both “Litany” and the entire collection—“We all go to sleep”—I found myself dropping my shoulders in relief. Agarau writes so beautifully, offering this gift to himself and his community.

Simultaneously recounting terrible horrors and blessing loved ones, Agarau trusts his memory to guide readers through a variety of poetic forms and storytelling techniques. He is an honest but kind navigator, one that is unafraid to bear witness and invested in a better future for himself, for Black boys, and for all. The Years of Blood is a must read amidst today’s world’s violence at home and abroad, both as a wake up call and a source of hope.

The Years of Blood is available for pre-order from Fordham University Press

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Livia Meneghin (she/her) is the author of feathering and Honey in My Hair. She is currently the Assistant Chapbook Editor and Reads Editor at Sundress Publications, and has been awarded recognition from The Academy of American Poets, Breakwater Review, The Room Magazine, the Writers’ Room of Boston, the City of Boston, and elsewhere. Her writing has found homes in Colorado Review, CV2, Gasher, The Journal, Osmosis, and Thrush, among others. Since earning her MFA in Poetry, she teaches writing and literature at the collegiate level. She is a cancer survivor.