"Penguin Noir," as the title suggests, fuses noir with anthropomorphism. One probes the cruelty and strangeness of the world; the other assigns human traits to non-human beings. Together, they mount a thrilling takedown of Man’s god complex.

Davis’ novel-in-verse centers on this complex, fracturing freedom into a cage and exposing the clinical pornography of human-controlled insemination. In doing so, it strips away the illusion of human exceptionalism. By blending poetry with dramatic writing, it then confidently challenges the belief that humanity stands apart from the animal kingdom—the very same it oppresses, whether for gain or enjoyment.

Though the narrative is bleak, its execution is spectacular. Words—aching, violent, and suggestive—mirror emotional states and physical experiences through rhythm and form, drawing the reader into their pattern.

Every mind can glimpse fragments of itself in "Penguin Noir"’s cast: the female penguin aching for a child, the multitude dreaming of freedom in a world governed by human hands, or the spectacle-starved zoogoer, gazing on in hollow awe. Davis goes further still, drawing a sharp parallel between the destructive love of life that seeks to cage and possess, and the human world where life itself becomes a threat.

More precisely, the fear of its loss expands into a cell of its own—one that won't let the mind rest while humanity continues to inflict its greatest horrors upon itself. Yet Davis’ language, far from crushing, traces every boundary with exquisite care; its muscled membrane thrums beneath the mind's fingertips, delivering a subtle but relentless pressure.

In the end, "Penguin Noir" presses its beak against the language of dominion and control, warping it just enough to reveal its cracks. In that distortion lies a truth we rarely confront: that even our most human impulses—love, grief, longing—are not ours alone.

A beautiful and painfully poignant anthology of poems. At first I had no idea where this was going. But then I relaxed into it, as I began to recognize the skill and subtly at work. In sone moments, the hurt and trauma actually made me feel ill. And the ending made me question everything I had just read, I think I need to read it multiple times. Overall, a bit too short, and the poetry is fast and loose. But it is still full of muscle, emotion, and blood.

By the time I had reached climax, I was already so inmersed on the story I could not put it down. I wanted to know everything about these penguins and their lives. I empathized with them, I became one with the penguins. Lastly, I would like to say that the illustrations inside the book match the poems perfectly and that both the author and the illustrator did a great work.

The collection's hybrid form—a "play-in-verse"—allows Davis to utilize theatrical techniques that heighten the spectacle of ecological catastrophe while maintaining intimate emotional resonance. The author's language oscillates between wry observation and raw exasperation, creating a rhythmic tension that mirrors the precarious existence of her penguin protagonists.

A poignant albeit sometimes raunchy metaphor for climate change and environmentalism told mostly through the eyes of penguins.