This little book of uneasy meditations, sneaky injunctions, and creepy vignettes cannot be adequately synopsized; it works a mad alchemy on ordinary things—broken dishes, a matchbook, a bench—transforming them into spooky harbingers of nonspecific doom. Alice Bolin knows how to be funny, how to be lonely, and how to fill you up with delicious unease.
J. Robert Lennon
Alice Bolin's poetry has appeared in Ninth Letter, FIELD, Guernica, Hayden's Ferry Review, and Washington Square, among many other journals. Her nonfiction shows up frequently in places like This Recording, The Paris Review Daily, PopMatters, and The New Yorker's Page-Turner blog. She lives in Los Angeles.
Hand sewn, 5.25" x 8.5"