All of it combines — maybe it was never separated — the language the character the narration, me, the reader, the world in which we read this.

Here, memory is both personal and communal. The four sections of the collection cross time and space, braiding together difficult experiences.

To inhabit As If Fire Could Hide Us is like the impossible experience of continuously reading the entire book all at once.

It’s as if the speakers have been starved of their ancestral languages, and so their English reaches for oracular truths.

Crossman doesn’t want to put a bow on things--the fear of loss persists; it’s merely taken new shape.

The title of this collection of essays is as much an admission as a threat. Or rather, as much an explanation as an expiation.

As the book drew to a close, I was filled with the same satisfied fatigue as when leaving a vast museum.

So many author interviews start with “welcome to the pages of Driftwood.” New readers will feel the warmth of that welcome.

Green’s “songs” communicate the possibility of finding pleasure and connection in a body previously dismissed as a myth.

Anca Szilágyi’s second novel, Dreams Under Glass, explores a young artist’s ache to make meaning in a world that feels meaningless.

Where does a mother’s body end and a child’s begin? Belly to the Brutal roots itself in that liminal space.

This is a hard book, in multiple senses of the word. Hard like difficult, like indestructible, like painful, like merciless.

An author, professor, and mother, Christman worries about many things, “but mostly,” she writes, “I worry about the physical safety of my kids. All the time.”

The best story in Barbara Molinard's book Panics, and the one which establishes the thematic thread binding all the others together into a cohesive collection, is the author's own, which Marguerite Duras explains in the book’s preface.

For a debut novel, Courtney Denelle’s It’s Not Nothing embraces a remarkable degree of risk. Voice and a highly internal focus drive the fragmented narrative.

Early in Rebecca van Laer’s debut novella, our protagonist, Charlotte, states, “I have been wondering for a long time what to do about my poetry.”

In her new poetry chapbook L(eye)ght, Jessica Kim explores the power of the eye as it relates to the body and perceptions of identity.

When books aren’t melodramatically losing ground to the digital realm, they’re beckoning us inside their logical leaps and syntactic slides in Jefferson Navicky’s defiant Antique Densities.

“Ten years from now I will think of Texas as the end of girlhood,” writes Jenny Irish in the closing poem of Tooth Box. This end encapsulates the constant question Irish asks the reader throughout the collection: where were you when everything changed?

In David Greenspan’s One Person Holds So Much Silence, a migration occurs in two dimensions.