Brandon Shimoda's third collection of poetry reflects on the poet's family history, specifically, the life of his grandfather, who was imprisoned in a U.S. internment camp during World War II. These often spare, gorgeously crafted poems are constructed and persist within and out of chilling landscapes—the aftermath of the bombing of Hiroshima, the underworld. Etal Adnan writes, "[Shimoda's] world is a hushed world—his book, a silent prayer, not to a god, but to life, the life of survivors—that one can whisper, can join the dead—that whisper turns into a ritualistic text, a celebration of witnessing." From "In the Middle of Migration"
sugar mammal, slit throat tethered to the thickest spar between home and adopted home makes no difference in times like these without bothering to unfold the map or take it from its sleeve climb the rungs of bone and limb to pierce what version of skin or sky the solvent leaks
This book review originally appeared in American Poets.