Description

Quiver is a book of reckoning, a book of ghosts, a book of lineal fracture and generational fatherlesness. It’s a visceral guide through boyhood into fatherhood. One that yields witness to trauma, erotic shames, brutalities and toxic masculinity, and in so doing, emerges with a speaker beginning to free himself. Patricia Smith said it best: “Quiver will change the way you see.”
“floodghost”
Mother couldn’t manage
what sated me, so she prayed:
sought in silence
a substance that’d soothe,
something familial with grace.
I groaned. Broke bodies
over blacktop’s pane, a bottom-
less well of blood. At seven
I smothered a frog and fed each leg
to my quivering sister
laughed while she choked out its skin. At twelve,
I pulled a pistol from under
the vacant shed and shoved
its shudder to a schoolboy’s temple, teased
while he wept in his piss.
And yet all along a Psalm, a satchel
of prayer: song. Mother making
contracts with the sky, while I
tore its pages to light a fire, warm
my hands around it. Radiant blue. Red
from a faraway pine.

Quiver: Poems

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£25.29

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Paperback / softback by Luke Johnson

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Short Description:

Quiver is a book of reckoning, a book of ghosts, a book of lineal fracture and generational fatherlesness. It’s a... Read more

    Publisher: Texas Review Press
    Publication Date: 31/10/2023
    ISBN13: 9781680033205, 978-1680033205
    ISBN10: 1680033204

    Number of Pages: 126

    Fiction , Poetry

    Description

    Quiver is a book of reckoning, a book of ghosts, a book of lineal fracture and generational fatherlesness. It’s a visceral guide through boyhood into fatherhood. One that yields witness to trauma, erotic shames, brutalities and toxic masculinity, and in so doing, emerges with a speaker beginning to free himself. Patricia Smith said it best: “Quiver will change the way you see.”
    “floodghost”
    Mother couldn’t manage
    what sated me, so she prayed:
    sought in silence
    a substance that’d soothe,
    something familial with grace.
    I groaned. Broke bodies
    over blacktop’s pane, a bottom-
    less well of blood. At seven
    I smothered a frog and fed each leg
    to my quivering sister
    laughed while she choked out its skin. At twelve,
    I pulled a pistol from under
    the vacant shed and shoved
    its shudder to a schoolboy’s temple, teased
    while he wept in his piss.
    And yet all along a Psalm, a satchel
    of prayer: song. Mother making
    contracts with the sky, while I
    tore its pages to light a fire, warm
    my hands around it. Radiant blue. Red
    from a faraway pine.

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