Bailey unearths, scratches out identity and direction, boils and pours. To describe the substance of her poetry requires us to eschew the trite. The book is brief, but viscous with history and myth, music and oppressions. The works do for Haiti, for the black diaspora, what chronicles cannot: they swell with the psychic effects upon ancestors and descendants. I don't know what to do with it, but it insists I understand.

A taste:

harvest of breasts and teeth their dream
to make me unreal to make me a voiceless fog

This one stays on my shelf.