by Kristin Bock
Published: July 2021
Available on backorder
“In Glass Bikini, Kristin Bock presciently asks us to examine the emotions that make us human— ‘Grief is a boat / exactly the size and shape of the sea’— and the instincts that make us monstrous— ‘Our lost lovers are rifles. Our silhouettes, rifles.’ A gaslighting friend gifts the speaker with a bag that slowly dismembers her. Bock’s intensely inventive poems brim with possibilities and their attendant problems: ‘Without their adoring fans, pole-vaulting robots would be nothing but cans crying into themselves.’”
“‘Sometimes monsters are so big you can’t see them. But you can feel their hands ragdolling you,’ Kristin Bock’s uncanny speaker confides, and we know all too well the coordinates of this disorientation. Warning or weather report? Mythic romp or unwelcome mirror? Yes, the provocative and enrapturing poems of Glass Bikini assert as they take us for a raucous and irresistible ride.”
“In the haunted dreamscapes of Glass Bikini where robots and angels meet in secret to kiss, we find the poet making stained glass windows for monsters and sewing tapestries from black milk and “stars turned inside out.” Only Kristin Bock could provoke such shades of sensation between fear, sorrow, humor and delight, all while exalting the divine feminine above a nation gone mad with rifles. This is a new American surrealism, of ‘hot pink guillotines’ thrust upward from personal myth and collective taboo, a bewitching revelation of what has been hidden so long as to become dangerous, yet strangely beautiful.”
Part creation myth, part prophesy, Kristin Bock’s Glass Bikini stitches together the fabrics of our dystopian present, reminding us of our culpability and power in this grand, human experiment. These often darkly humorous poems guide readers into dreamscapes and under-worlds that are ominously contemporary. From a looking-glass planet, we peer back at our own homes and see the news as a horror movie. There is the sickening feeling that something has gone terribly wrong. Monsters prowl here inspired as much by Sarah Kane as Mary Shelley. We hold a tiny prehistoric horse in our paws. We are masochistic voodoo dolls traipsing hand in hand through grisliness and the sublime. Children ooze black milk; a mother curls into her ovaries and turns inside out. Birth, emergence, the body itself—are untrustworthy in these poems. Read them as if viewed through an endoscope. Read them as if they might bite you.
|Dimensions||6.14 × 9.21 in|