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Smallwood’s poetry collection offers comfort through her lyrical prose.

Nostalgia pulled me into this story, but I needed to step away from it in order to write a book.

I understood her loyalty to the one true story, the first version in her experience. That comforting feeling of stability and rightness is not easily outgrown.

What makes literature good? What’s the difference between something that’s of value to me and something that could be of value to somebody else?

I want him to see / depth is not something bodies grasp, but an art our minds develop // to gauge love’s slap.

shares a creature’s pain / raw red sorrow

I am in this basement throwing bar stools.

by which I don’t mean just the touch / (the rasp of a voice is a thing I love)

a girl is Shiva drinking ocean poison

how now, sweetmeat, will you eat us too …

I can’t scrub away / the shadows.