Anne Walsh Donnelly’s debut collection, Odd As F*ck is a fearless triumph of poetic voice. These accomplished poems harness the gamut of emotions that make up a life. Each stanza plumbs depth of feeling with a sincerity that resonates, but also moves on to remind us of the impermanence of it all. Life is full of unexpected moments, trials and exultation, so too is this incredible collection of poems.

To Lean In

I didn’t rage, rationalise,
ignore or trivialise.
I just sat on the bath’s lip
and cried, knowing
I would not be swept away.

–I Sat With Grief, Anne Walsh Donnelly, Odd As F*ck

In a world where life is curated via social media and we are assaulted with the toxicity of “Good Vibes Only”, it is refreshing to read such an open response to the emotion of grief. For me the brilliance in this poem is in the perspective. I can read it a few ways and either way, it still maintains the power of resonance. Donnelly opens by telling us: She came after the children/were fed and put to bed. This ‘she’ is so palpably real that I can actually imagine that someone is there with our narrator, being that shoulder to cry on or that person we can always lean into. But sometimes that doesn’t happen, for whatever reason. Being alone forces us to avoid ourselves and emotions or meet them head on. There’s rarely too much foggy in between time.

So reading closer, the ‘she’ could be grief. That’s the most obvious answer, I mean the clue is in the title. The most interesting part about the title is that it seems very passive, sitting with grief- but there’s nothing passive about this poetry, at all. In fact, grief is a gentle caretaker in these stanzas. Grief is doing all the things we’d like to do for self care but can’t be bothered with when the emotion is overwhelming. The juxtaposition about grief as a giver, when I’ve often viewed grief as a taker (taking loved ones, opportunities, hope, etc) is akin to a great reveal I never knew could exist. This is the kind of poetry that seeps into my bones, with details that pull me into the language and offer me something new.

The Things We Say (To Ourselves)

I lick seeds from passion fruit for breakfast.
It’s a bowl of porridge you should be eating.

I flick through the latest copy of Diva magazine.
Since when did you stop reading Good Housekeeping?

I write a poem about having sex at sixty.
You should be knitting scarfs for grandchildren.

–Talk To Me Like Lovers Do, Anne Walsh Donnelly, Odd As F*ck

This conversation between narrator and the inner ‘self’ is so familiar to me. Oh, I have different specific conversations, but they often sound along the same chime. I love how even as we continue down the poem with the first line being our narrator and the second being that inner critic, the narrator just keeps pushing on. Every line of that dialogue punches with action: I slip/I clasp/I gaze/I button/I pull/I squeeze/I spike/I lick/I flick/I write. Our narrator is getting on with the things she wants to do in the way that she wants to do them and I find that empowering.

Sometimes it can feel impossible to stop that voice that tells us we are ridiculous/too old/not good enough, but this poem shows it IS possible to continue moving on and living the life we want to live. I had to go back to the title and really think about relationships. Over a course of the relationship we change, people are changing constantly. Sometimes these are in small ways and sometimes its much more fundamental. But all of our changes add up and we can grow closer through them or push apart. I think this can be true for our inner self, as well. I have a graveyard of self critics that started out by encouraging me and telling me I could do anything. We grew apart- like lovers do.

As I was reading this, I thought about the courage of the narrator. And I will admit, I was cheering her on. I think it would have been interesting to end the poem with the line from the narrator and not from the critic- but that’s a poet’s choice and it’s powerful either way.

This, Again

‘I’m sorry but I can’t catch every nightmare you have.’

‘Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do,’ I muttered,
hunting for a clean pair of knickers.

‘You had me working overtime last night,’ she said.
‘I’m not Wonder Woman.’

–Dreamcatcher, Anne Walsh Donnelly, Odd As F*ck

Section VII of this collection, titled “Voices”, is absolutely my favourite part of the book. I devoured each poem and then went and read them again. Donnelly has a gift for telling me a story that makes me laugh and then pulls me up short with unexpected depth. Healing is not a linear process, no matter how much we’d like it to be. I feel like my survival and recovery from trauma is something akin to a spirograph that runs all over the page of my life. Sometimes I end up overlapping into old territory and I throw my hands up thinking, “This? Again?”.

This poem is funny and it squeezes my heart at the same time, because I feel the truth of experience in it. We can do all of the right things. For me, that was going to therapy and doing the hard work. It was engaging in mindfulness, meditation and treating my body better. It was having all kinds of tools in my mental toolbox to leverage when I needed them. But, I’ll be honest. I was kind of hoping I’d never need them. And so when something shows up that triggers my CPTSD, I tend to wonder why, when I’ve done all the things!

So yeah, I want to shake my fist at our narrator’s dreamcatcher for falling asleep on the job. But, I also get where the dreamcatcher is coming from here too. And that’s what makes me smile, because in the end the conversation with the dreamcatcher does help our narrator in determining a ‘duvet day’ is in order. Sometimes the tools we have work in unexpected ways.

 

In Conclusion

This debut poetry collection is stunning in its depth, breadth and humour surrounding the human experience. Anne Walsh Donnelly is easily a favourite poet of mine and this work just cements that opinion. She has the courage to say and show things as they are, instead of how we wish them to be. The truth is, we’re all Odd As F*ck. Donnelly knows that and isn’t afraid to say it.

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Odd As F*ck, by Anne Walsh Donnelly, is available for purchase through Fly on The Wall Press.

About the Author

ANNE WALSH DONNELLY writes poetry, prose and plays. She is a single mother of two teenagers. Originally from Carlow in the south-east of Ireland, she now lives in Mayo in the west of Ireland.

Anne says, “I experiment, take risks, run wild on the page, always hoping my work will resonate with the reader. I write my emotional truth and bring my whole-self to my writing.”

She has been described by the Irish poet, Kevin Higgins as “a poet of exceptional bravery, a pretty sensational original voice. I hope the poetry world doesn’t tame her, though no doubt it will try.”

About the Press

FLY ON THE WALL PRESS is a social enterprise company and a not for profit publisher, based in Manchester. They publish high quality anthologies on pressing issues, chapbooks and poetry products, from exceptional poets around the globe, with socially conscious themes.

 

Feverfew by Anna Saunders is a heady operatic plunge rooted in the complexities of humanity and nature. Set to a score of rich lyricism and language that knows when to crescendo and when to whisper, these verses echo long after the last note has ended, leaving the reader both singed and refreshed.

We Are Nature

Surely these white stars will heal?

Their heady scent fills my rooms, like an animal
moulting musky fur.

I dreamt I pushed my petals into your mouth
to soothe your throbbing head.

My realms are sky, the moon is mine.

–Feverfew, Anna Saunders, Feverfew

This poem is a perfect example of how Saunders stitches together what we often separate into categories. Many times I have said myself that I am going out ‘into’ nature. It has taken me years to understand that I am also nature, that there is no going out into it. We are a complex organisation of organisms that are meant to co-exist and work together for survival. Just as the smallest sapling struggling in a network of trees sends signals to its elders for assistance, here we see the same thirst for help through the mystery of dreams, calling out to natural counterparts and asking for assistance, begging for healing.

In these lines we are not merely observers, but are thrust into all of the senses and aligned with the mysteries of things we cannot see but only smell or touch or feel. Feverfew is given an active presence as it pushes and soothes with a healing that not only goes to its typical medicinal remedy, but cracks open the sky and embraces reflected light in an attempt to reach the source of pain.

 

Abduction Allegory

I laid out every flower from which he could feed,
gave him ripe fruit so he guzzled and swooned

but when he flew towards the window and battered
against the glass I pulled down the blinds.

I couldn’t blame him for wanting the wild flower meadows,
beauty draws its double

but I wanted him
with his mirrored wings, to reflect back only me.

–I Stole a Butterfly, Anna Saunders, Feverfew

 

The mantras of a toddler are simple: I wanted it, therefore it is mine. What is this base human need to posses? Is it instinct baked into our existence, or is it something we learn from the first pull of oxygen we claim at birth? As I read this poem I traveled down two roads.

The first was this crime against nature and the beautiful wildness of a butterfly, possessed into death. Trees give us oxygen and in return we chop them down and chip them into pressed wood for flat pack disposable lives. They become showroom worthy and part of a curated feed fashioned as a bespoke life. But then we are astonished by the lack of trees, by climate change, by all of the damage we just didn’t know we were capable of in this world. Distill this into a butterfly, captured and worn as a ‘plumy’ brooch, described here by Saunders and we have a stark, small example of how human craving can cause immense and irreversible suffering when left unchecked.

My second meandering was into my own experience of being possessed by an abuser. At first, I too, was fed enough ripe fruit to guzzle and swoon. Then the blinds were pulled and I was isolated, plunged in darkness and cut off from beauty. Pushed into a world where I was sure to die, but unlike this butterfly, I found a crack in a window. The craving my abuser had to possess, to control what he once saw as a prize for his collection quickly lost its shine as I beat my battered wings and lost the lustre of life.

Again, I ask. This craving, this need to possess and the refusal to think about the consequences beyond a human desire- where does this come from? How do we begin to grow compassion that overtakes craving? The brilliance of these poems is that they cease to become simply words on a page, but instead leave allegories, connections and questions for us to ponder.

In Conclusion

I’ve only chosen a couple of poems to highlight from this collection, but there were so many others that are worthy of discussion. Feverfew, by Anna Saunders is lush with rich description, precise word choices and phrasing that sings off the page. The range of emotion is vast, so much like nature– so much like our human experience.

Feverfew, by Anna Saunders, is available for purchase now from Indigo Dreams.

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About the Author

 

Medusa’s Daughter, by Jane Rosenberg LaForge, is a shedding of poetic skin where the mythical gives way to modern and seeds a new narrative. These poems are filled with treasures of syntactical prowess that leave us with a sense of wonder and awe.

We All Have Our Snakes

There were no snakes
in her hair,
only voices,
a wreath of harpies
and reptiles, the kind
that make a life
in the suburbs;

–Mommy Medusa, Jane Rosenberg LaForge, Medusa’s Daughter

There’s no escaping the sibilant quality of these carefully constructed lines and they’re a fine example of the carefully crafted poems throughout LaForge’s collection. Each line wraps around to each other without benefit of stanza breaks in this poem as it slithers its way to the end.

I’ve often thought about Medusa’s story. I’ve thought about what the traditional narrative tells us, about the relationship of women to each other in myth and of the twisting of story to suit an agenda. However, I never considered the sound of those snakes.

Can you even imagine?

The flick of tongue and hiss and constant movement would not be something I could imagine coping with. And yet, we all have our snakes. I never could play what I called the ‘girl game’ growing up. I wasn’t a gossip, hissing secrets into ears and tittering at the misfortunes of others. More likely, I was one that people chose to ‘hiss’ about.  But my snakes now are different. They’re the trauma memories that have invaded my amygdala until it is swollen in size and ever vigilant, constantly on the lookout to protect me and remind me of the bad things that happen when we are not careful. LaForge reminds us that the things that seek to protect us can often cause harm and isolate us inside of our own minds.

It Hurts to Be Pretty

I thought my skin would explode
from a bee sting; a mosquito bite
guaranteed misery and swollenness.
I needed these assaults so I could be
doomed and beautiful like the pretty
girls were,

–Nostalgia, Jane Rosenberg LaForge, Medusa’s Daughter

I don’t believe that hindsight is ever 20/20. Mostly this is because the glasses of nostalgia confuse memories as we look back. It’s so easy to look in soft focus and forget all of the sharp edges when they are too painful. In this poem, as in so many others in this collection I’m reminded that story is told and remembered through a personal lens. Which means that everyone’s story is unique, even when we remember similar events.

In the lines above, I see myself as a young girl and I shake my head. But, these weren’t silly girl notions that I came up with on my own and I’d wager it is similar for the narrator in this poem. Culture and social morals are the fields where we are planted. Nurture is not always nurturing when those tending the fields send us toxic messaging. The toxicity is not always intended. I know that in my life, well meaning women have lauded the idea that a damsel in distress is simply natural and that the hero coming to save her is worth every bit of suffering.

And then there are the overt toxic attitudes of politics and religion that seek to keep women fragile and in need of men to save them. This ignores that often, it is the very same people who are the perpetrators of distress. Those in positions of power and privilege tell the story and this story has been told for so long that it has become fact. LaForge reminds us that story is complicated and that new narratives are essential in moving forward.

In Conclusion

There is power in story. More importantly, there is power in telling our stories. Medusa’s Daughter, by Jane Rosenberg LaForge, is an example of how myth from the past echoes and haunts our contemporary stories and personal histories. The truth is, we understand the world through our own narrative. When it is unchallenged or when we close our ears to the narratives of others, we risk losing a perspective that can help us engage in compassion and understanding. These are the things that connect us and help us to evolve socially.

Every poem in this collection is filled with language that examines some of the deepest and disturbing parts of the human experience. LaForge is unflinching in her truth telling through these masterfully crafted poems.

Medusa’s Daughter, by Jane Rosenberg LaForge, is available for purchase through Animal Heart Press.

Juliette

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About the Author

JANE ROSENBERG LAFORGE’S poetry, fiction, critical and personal essays have appeared in numerous publications, including Poetry Quarterly, Wilderness House Literary Review, Ottawa Arts Review, Boston Literary Magazine, THRUSH, Ne’er-Do-Well Literary Magazine, and The Western Journal of Black Studies. Her memoir-fantasy, An Unsuitable Princess, is available from Jaded Ibis Press. Her full-length collection of poetry, With Apologies to Mick Jagger, Other Gods, and All Women  was published in fall 2012 by The Aldrich Press. She is also the author of the chapbooks After Voices, published by Burning River of Cleveland in 2009, and Half-Life, from Big Table Publishing of Boston in 2010. She lives in New York City with her husband and daughter.

About the Press

ANIMAL HEART PRESS is a small poetry press based in Vermont, USA. Fiercely feminist, their mission is to provide an author-centered, caring and supportive publishing experience. In addition to the Animal Heart Press imprint, the team produces a poetry and art literary journal, FERAL. In 2020 they opened submissions to Femme Salvé Books, with the aim of rescuing poetry manuscripts where other presses are no longer in a position to proceed with publication. Find out more at www.animalheartpress.net

 

 

Content warning: This review contains discussion and mention of sensitive topics such as domestic and sexual violence and may be triggering to some readers.

 

To Fall Fable, by Alice Wickenden, reminds us that those with the power to tell stories can shape enduring legacies. In this pamphlet of poetry, Wickenden re-imagines the story of Adam and Eve in a way we’ve never heard it. These accomplished poems cover a wide range of themes and seek to put into language the emotions that sometimes defy description. In breaking down and remaking one of the world’s oldest stories, she challenges gender roles, ideas of consent and sends us into the universe of ‘what if‘.

What if everything we think we know is wrong? How would power and intrinsic personal value shift?

A Godly Proposal

Not we, God said, only you. Won’t it be lonely? she asked. It’s Paradise, God said. Leave your sisters behind.

–Parable (I), Alice Wickenden, To Fall Fable

The second poem in this book is part of a series of three parables scattered throughout the pamphlet. Told in intervals, it unfolds an alternate story of the creation of Eve. In the first parable Eve talks about how she began as one of Adams ribs and the other ribs formed her sisterhood. These sisters were perfectly happy to reside where they were until one day God made a proposal. One of them would become a full human companion for Adam.

Eve is hesitant, after all she was living a fine and full life before this. But God is insistent; Eve capitulates.

One of the most fascinating pieces of this is the idea of agency. In my exposure to religion, I’ve often been presented with a God that had sure and capable hands. He conjured up an entire world without hesitation or negotiation. Wickenden asks me to think about the idea that maybe it wasn’t so self-directed. It also brings up the idea of responsibility associated with most major decision making.

In the original story, it is Eve who is credited with the expulsion of the first two humans from Eden. God promised her a paradise. In the parable above there’s no mention of the rules that would come once she was created. The sales pitch was tempting enough and it was taken on good faith that a Paradise would be delivered.

I can’t help but think of the parallels of some of my own experience in relationships. In the beginning there are promises and proposals of love; everyone is on their best behaviour. Over time, in good relationships these stay steady and although we uncover petty annoyances, they aren’t enough to break a bond. But at other times, the change is far more sinister. The “paradise” we thought we were being led into becomes a cage. The person we thought would act in good faith, as we have, turns into an oppressor.

Pain becomes a punishment we deserve.

The difference with the story of Original Sin, as it is told in most Christian religions– is that no one questions why Eve ‘didn’t just leave’. As I navigate my own trauma recovery and make this connection it leaves me stunned to think of how long a large portion of humanity has cemented moral codes based on toxic themes. Is it any wonder we engage in misogynistic victim blaming when we begin with a story like this?

Wickenden’s retelling is unflinching and raw. It sweeps the legs from an old story in one swift and damning stroke.

Did You Fall– Or Were You Pushed?

abuse repeats itself like a crown of thorns:
we fall into it again and again.

–Crown of Sonnets (I)– Alice Wickenden, To Fall Fable

Perhaps the most stunning and powerful work of this poet is the Crown of Sonnets. Wickenden’s ability to marry form to subject matter in a way that creates and ‘aha!’ moment for the reader is unparalleled.

As I sort through my trauma, I often wander back to ‘where it went wrong’. There must have been one decision or turning point that led to the downfall of everything else. These sonnets remind me of that kind of logic. Each sonnet carries the thread from the last, connecting the human experience until it comes full circle. Over ten years of abuse felt like being stuck in a patch of thorns that I could not see a way to exit, as over and over again I experienced pain and doubt that there was much existence beyond surviving.

…everyone watching thinks it was
inevitable. they discuss over wine and
posh supermarket crisps: this is what
I would have done.

–Crown of Sonnets (I), Alice Wickenden, To Fall Fable

The truth of it is, no one knows what they ‘would have done’ and speculating about that comes from a position of privilege. I think of how often language hinders us from expressing compassion. In fact, sometimes language can encourage harsh judgments just by virtue of its arrangement. Consider for example the construction of sentences such as: “She fell victim to../He fell prey to.. “. Just by virtue of the construction the subject engages in an active verb that somehow implies a responsibility for their situation.

Survivors of domestic and sexual violence, myself included, continue to battle against the idea that somehow we could have stopped the violence- as if we are responsible for such things. We are also subjected to the armchair quarterbacks, sitting in relative ease and calm, who would strategise for us the clear path to victory. These strategies are created without the clanging bell of the amygdala raising a survival alarm and without the cloud of cortisol streaming through the body and brain.

Comments like these are simply more thorns in the crown of abuse that we’ve tried so desperately to extricate from our lives. Truth be told, there are plenty of times that I’ve damned myself for the responsibilities I should have placed squarely on my abuser. Survivors are familiar with regret, we are familiar with feeling like things are our fault; we’ve already learned those lessons from our abusers.

In the last sonnet Wickenden drives home the point about language by writing: “the way language folds in on itself. everything collapses.” The language we use reveals us to one another and has a profound effect on our ability to demonstrate compassion and work toward healing.

In Conclusion

To Fall Fable is full of bravery in the retelling of an ancient story. The poetry is accomplished and not over wrought, as would be so easily done with triggering topics such as domestic and sexual violence. As a survivor, I appreciate authors like Wickenden who tackle these difficult subjects and seek to shed a new light on our thinking of not only the trauma itself, but the aftermath. I also appreciate publishers like Variant Literature, who give platforms to such voices and allow those who have been long silenced, to speak. I highly recommend this book, especially to those who are not survivors. Perhaps it will offer some much needed perspective.

To Fall Fable, by Alice Wickenden is available for purchase at Variant Literature.

Juliette

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About the Author

ALICE WICKENDEN is finishing her PhD on Renaissance books in London. She has poems in Anthropocene and Cypress and reviews in the Brixton Review of Books, the TLS and Totally Dublin. In her spare time she volunteers for Abortion Support Network, and reads to her cat.

About the Publisher

VARIANT LITERATURE seeks to support authors by providing a space for personal and professional development. Through collaboration, quarterly journal publication, traditional chapbook & novella publication, and contests that may help the independent author get noticed, we’re here to help you with your literary goals. We are working with our local community on bridging the gap between the millions of authors that go unpublished. We are a proud partner of the North Carolina Writers’ Network.

 

Diaspora Child, by Ciona Nankervis, is a book of poetry that explores the idea of what it means to belong and to hope to find a place to call home. Nankervis is a Birmingham-born British woman of Punjabi lineage who is unflinching in her descriptions of what life has been like for her as she navigates these turbulent waters.

The cover art is comprised of an image of a painting by the author. Through nearly transparent lines intersecting one another and the hints of red and blue dropped into a few crevices, the complexity of self and nuance is clear. It is a perfect lead into a series of accomplished poems full of their own nuances and complexities.

There’s No Place Like Home– But Where Is It?

As much as numerous people deny, or try to rub out their nature, we, as humans, are natural beings- the yearning for home is foundational to us.

–Prologue, Diaspora Child, Ciona Nankervis

 

From the very beginning of this book Nankervis captures a theme that has been with me for most of my life. Home. I have a childhood memory of a yearly viewing of The Wizard of Oz (before streaming, before VHS & DVD players) on television with my family. The theme of wanting to break free from Midwestern life and go somewhere interesting and exciting spoke to me as a person that felt stifled growing up. I never could imagine wanting to go ‘back’ as Dorothy does in the film. But, what I came to realise later is that I always longed for a place to call home. Home isn’t where I grew up. Home isn’t the place where my family is– it’s so much more complicated and nuanced than that. For me, it has come to mean a place where I feel like I can be myself and where I fit and feel the most comfortable. It’s the place I can’t wait to return back to when I am finished with adventures, much like Dorothy.

Throughout this book, the poet touches on these two large themes: self and home. In order to find a home, it seems imperative to figure out who we are, and home is a great place to figure out the ‘self’. Underneath this complex umbrella are all of the people that come along with their opinions and assumptions, with their ideas about who we are and where we belong. Nankervis says in the prologue: “Home, to me, resides within: wherever you go, you can carry it with you.” In this, we are in agreement and it has taken me a long time to understand this. Yet, I still  find it important to name a place as home, there is something stable about feeling planted. I realise it is a privilege to have such a place and this book of poetry illuminates that fact.

Outside of the Box

I am a cultural composite,
A life and experience kichri
Flavoured by all I have felt and been-
A scratch, sniff, view, listen, lick screen,
Intricate global needlepoint,
Loose buttons in Danish butter biscuit tins.

A child of the Indian diaspora

–Diaspora Child, Ciona Nankervis

As a human race, we try to start life in neat little boxes. Categorising things somehow makes us feel comfortable, as if things can be predictable and understood more easily. In science, we categories species and genus with meticulous care and it gives a (false) sense of understanding how everything fits together.

But, these categories are limiting. Labels are limiting. And predictability is nothing I’ve been familiar with in this life. In the verse above, Nankervis details for us everything that doesn’t fit inside the box. Humans are complex and our origins and experiences make us even more complex. When described as an ‘intricate global needlepoint‘, it’s not hard to see how this can be beautiful. But, so many people do not see differences this way. The poet is also clear, exclusion can be faced within one’s own culture. In many of the poems Nankervis points out the experience of being too ‘light skinned’ and therefore being told she does not belong with people of colour.

As I read this, I realise that because of my own privilege, I have never felt this. Nor can I imagine it, not in any way that would do it justice. This is why it is important that I read about these experiences or talk to people that have them first hand. I have seen a lot of poets and writers writing about racial injustice in a misguided attempt to help people of colour. There are plenty of people out there that are willing to speak and tell their stories, and it is important that we listen and learn to amplify their voices. The privileged have spoken on race for long enough, it is now time for poetry like this to speak to us and for us to listen.

In Conclusion

As the coal-black car carrying the people’s princess
Pressed, without mercy, into the walls of a Paris underpass,
Same day, broke the headline of my shattered home.

–(To) The Letter., Ciona Nankervis, Diaspora Child

This poem jolted me and left a deep impression. I could say that about a lot of poems in this book. But, here we have the description of an event that anyone living at the time would remember: the death of Princess Diana. Even I, living in America at the time, saw it all over the news and saw the deep mourning that ‘everyone’ appeared to be in over it. Years later, it is still talked about with hushed tones and sadness. But, at the same time, someone’s world was falling apart, shattered like that glass on the Paris underpass and it never made headlines.

This happens all of the time. Every time I see in the news that someone famous has died, I wonder who else was suffering that day. What things are important to us? What matters? This is not to say that what happened to Princess Diana wasn’t a tragedy. Of course it was. But, it was one of many tragedies.

Diaspora Child, by Ciona Nankervis, is a collection of poems that speak to the struggles and difficulties of her specific experience, but do so in a way that let the reader know she is not alone in this suffering. In sharing this story, with so much courage, Nankervis highlights details in a world that I can only see from the outside. We share some commonalities philosophically, which are the things that make us human. This poetry shines light on real problems and does not offer us solutions. This is as it should be. People of privilege should not expect to be hand fed solutions from those that have been marginalised by that same privilege. It is our place to listen. Read this book and listen.

Diaspora Child, by Ciona Nankervis, is available for purchase on Amazon.

Juliette

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About the Author

CIONA NANKERVIS is a writer and artist from Birmingham, England. Her work traverses a variety of subjects, and is written in forms that she feels best express the content, including poetry, prose-poetry and essays. You can also find her on Instagram: @ciona89_

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