In these poems, the night can't always be trusted. Things get carried away, a woman's voice, body. But some of us refuse to parenthesis want forever behind a barbed wire fence, decide to mother the day in a spill of orchids, build a fortress in our children's imagination till even walking on a frozen bridge in a flimsy coat with your soul bleeding can feel like a work of art. To be in this company is contemplate the language of birds. To know that even amidst the plagues, there is a wild and holy spirit that seeks to carry us.