All the way through this quietly troubling text, I found myself jolted and squeezed, I found myself reeling back from getting too close for comfort, I found myself having to circle, re-read, to make space for it. This is urgent, demanding, rewarding poetry: poetry that grows and shrinks. It reminds me somewhat of a show I saw at the National Theatre last year, Bryony Kimmings’ A Pacifist’s Guide to the War on Cancer, where there were these inflatable tumor like objects that at moments of the production inflated through the ‘wings’ and forced everyone on stage to negotiate them. 
 
—Colin Herd