If shame works by convincing us that we are bad, by pinning us into a definition of badness, then the poems in Rummage resist by refusing to be pinned at all.
Lazarin has written her heart out chronicling the lives of recognizable girls and women as they come of age, find their footing and chart their path through life’s curves, on their own terms.
These poems, poised at the intersections of the material, the metaphorical, and the spiritual, fold into and out of one another as their boundaries dissolve with question after question.
A crucial part of what makes experimental writing fresh is the way sight works with what is said, whether the material is performed or read in silence.
[T]his is a book about the ways in which even our most intimate relationships can slip beyond our control, fracturing along barely perceptible fault lines.
We discover that each of these moments and stories is held to the boat’s body like a clew: tight; so much so as to be nearly indistinguishable from the whole.