Sharing sounds too nice, so we shall call these Micro-Reviews. No matter what you call them, go read them. Now.
As a person who is, in turns, obsessed with my hair and repulsed by it, I started reading this because of the title. This piece is called nonfiction, but it’s pure poetry in my estimation. This image and metaphor is so new, but simultaneously as old as Samson. Rosal has given me new ways to see hair and sadness and love — read it for the title and it will stay in your mind like sadness.
Equal parts playful and profound. It’s rare that I find a self-referential poem that I enjoy, but this one is one of them. “Now the end of every sentence seems/ unlikely.” This whole poem seems a little unlikely, but somehow it is.
I went to college in Ohio and so maybe I have the smallest soft part for the mostly horrible state. This poem hit that soft spot. The surprising images and turns are what make a poem good. Brilliant use of the ordinary abounds in this poem: “I grew tall in the light/ of your refrigerators.”
Bonus: Finger Gymnastics.