A book of loss, looking back, and what binds us to life, by a towering
poetic talent, called one of the poetry stars of his generation (Los
Angeles Times).
We sleep long, / if not sound, Kevin Young writes early on in this
exquisite gathering of poems, Till the end/ we sing / into the wind. In
scenes and settings that circle family and the generations in the
American South--one poem, Kith, exploring that strange bedfellow of
kin--the speaker and his young son wander among the stones of their
ancestors. Like heat he seeks them, / my son, thirsting / to learn those
/ he don't know / are his dead.
Whether it's the fireflies of a Louisiana summer caught in a mason jar
(doomed by their collection), or his grandmother, Mama Annie, who
latches the screen door when someone steps out for just a moment, all
that makes up our flickering precarious joy, all that we want to
protect, is lifted into the light in this moving book. Stones becomes
an ode to Young's home places and his dear departed, and to what of
them--of us--poetry can save.