In Boisvert’s world, horses sprout from seeds and fawns fall out of the sky. And a whole day may pass where all we do is take turns holding brightly-colored babies swaddled in white towels. But inside that day is the quiet reminder that not all our children survive. Though sometimes as a minotaur and sometimes as a tree, the speaker in these poems moves through surreal plots and landscapes which, when read together, create a touching and singular story of childhood and parenthood, and of transformation through loss.
“While the helix of heredity coils between the pages, there is always a mutation taking place. The prose poems of this collection function as multi-generational, anatomically correct matryoshka dolls of mothers and daughters, fathers and sons: consumed, contained, birthed, eviscerated and recycled. Jon reminds us that our world, like Frankenstein’s monster, is constantly unraveling, but the nightmare of this transformation is our only hope for salvation.”