Salò Press


Lewis Buxton

Pearson builds worlds in her poems, whether it is the strange towns of the Sims or a different country, where pavements crawl with thoughts. These worlds held themselves up to me, demanding I examine them from all angles. I’m still haunted by scavengers’ aliens and animal ghosts; its cars made up of ‘blood and guts and coupons’; its journeys with dogs into space. Pearson’s sprawling lines think deeply – care deeply – about the worlds they create, and often suddenly contract to small realisations or findings: a bird, a kiss or the very fact that we, and her speakers, exist. These poems are strange, lyric, beautiful and they keep shimmering long after you’ve stopped reading.