This book is a woman spelled as saudade. These poems are a field full of sleeping deer, a conspiracy of sparrows bent over the wet clay of water bowl, a calligraphy of vine across the bone-white limbs of a forgotten window in a father’s locked house. First, she calls him Father. Then, she calls him Husband. This is the echo of an invisible inheritance; a past that is written in future continuous tense.
A passionate synaesthesic raid on the fleshpots of language where nothing is itself only more so, where body, intelligence and emotion are constantly melting into each other and all is a precise but constant glittering. - George Szirtes