“Though at moments this collection feels fragile, like it is teetering on the edge of collapse, Grist is as much a book about healing as it is about being wounded. Many of the poems take place in hospital beds, where you can almost feel the bones of the speaker’s body knitting themselves, slowly, back together. The final words of the collection ring out, beyond the scrape of a scalpel against bone or a dead sparrow in the fireplace, toward a cynical, but certain hopefulness:
Sometimes things get broken, she said. Sometimes a car wrecks
on the side of the road and your father sees it and says to you,
My god, be careful out here.
And you try. You try for as long as you can.