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'"We are and were a Black family," Jackson writes and the dead matter of history hums. In this book of nearly subterranean intensity, I feel the poet hum, and it erodes borders between the poet's mouth and the river's, between forms of matter and states of consciousness. I feel Black life too, in its impossible thickness, and all of this in a beautiful economy of language that seizes without coercion and shapes without chisel. Stark, lush, and streaming, these poems show me how spirit isn't just born, it's made.' – Benjamin Krusling