Far District

"Lips remember no songs,
hands no rituals, all I have
are headache dreams.
The sea swells into a hurricane,
the land blackens into cancer,
lightning opens a heart
in the sky, like a boy opening
the window of a hot room
his mother died in."

many thanks to FSG books for so graciously giving me a digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.

reading far district is like viewing a piece of contemporary art. you know it's beautiful. you know that it pulls at you. you just might not necessarily understand why until you've given yourself time to think about it, to process your feelings, to revisit it. even when i didn't understand something on my first pass, there would inevitably be lines that just resonated within me. will all readers find this book approachable? no, not at all. but this is a collection of poems that more than deserves the attention and work that it requires.

hutchinson and i are from incredibly different backgrounds — many his poems are steeped in this burning specificity that would be confusing ro me if not for the gripping and relentless imagery he provides alongside it. these poems build off one another, creating a connective tissue that fuses together culture, religion, philosophy, memory, learning, and longing. even despite so much turmoil, there's still so many instances of light to be found throughout. i learned so much, and i know i will remember so many aspects of this book due to the enduring beauty of hutchinson's writing.