Stephanie M. Wytovich
Published: 2019-09-26
Total Pages: 113
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Doomsday is here and the earth is suffering with each breath she takes. Whether it’s from the nuclear meltdown, the wrath of the Four Horsemen, a war with technology, or a consequence of our relationship with the planet, humanity is left buried and hiding, our bones exposed, our hearts beating somewhere in our freshly slit throats. This is a collection that strips away civilization and throws readers into the lives of its survivors. The poems inside are undelivered letters, tear-soaked whispers, and unanswered prayers. They are every worry you’ve had when your electricity went out, and every pit that grew in your stomach watching the news at night. They are tragedy and trauma, but they are also grief and fear, fear of who—or what—lives inside us once everything is taken away. These pages hold the teeth of monsters against the faded photographs of family and friends, and here, Wytovich is both plague doctor and midwife, both judge and jury, forever searching through severed limbs and exposed wires as she straddles the line evaluating what’s moral versus what’s necessary to survive. What’s clear though, is that the world is burning and we don’t remember who we are. So tell me: who will you become when it’s over? "Reading this collection is like dancing through Doomsday, intoxicated by the destructive, decadent truth of desire in our very mortality." --Saba Syed Razvi, author of Heliophobia and In the Crocodile Gardens "Vivid, each word a weight on your tongue, these poems taste of metal and ash with a hint of spice, smoke. She reminds us the lucky ones die first, and those who remain must face the horrors of a world painted in blisters and fear." --Todd Keisling, author of Ugly Little Things and Devil's Creek "Set in a post-apocalyptic world that at times seems all too near, Wytovich's poems conjure up frighteningly beautiful and uncomfortably prescient imagery." --Claire C. Holland, author of I Am Not Your Final Girl "A surreal journey through an apocalyptic wasteland, a world that is terrifyingly reminiscent of our own even as the blare of evacuation alarms drowns out the sizzle of acid rain, smiling mannequins bear witness to a hundred thousand deaths, and "the forest floor grows femurs in the light of a skeletal moon."--Christa Carmen, author of Something Borrowed, Something Blood-Soaked "Like a doomsday clock fast-forwarding to its final self-destruction, Wytovich's poetry will give you whiplash as you flip through page after page. The writing here is ugly yet beautiful. It reads like a disease greedily eating up vital organs. The apocalypse has arrived and it couldn't be more intoxicating!" --Max Booth III, author of Carnivorous Lunar Activities
