Even if you don’t understand/like/read poetry, (maybe especially if you don’t) read this book. The poems are accessible, wise, and incredibly moving. Even if her memories are nothing like your own, you’ll be changed–lines like these: “Your father picks at a cooling pie, answers the call of his ice with Jack Daniels and Coke, watches you like a farmer watches his shimmering wheat.” Such honest and gorgeous language.

From her childhood and return visits to the hardscrabble world of Dawson Springs, Kentucky, to the poems about her daughters, her parents, and all the lines that bring this country’s gun violence tragedy to the page–you will come away grateful that you found this book. Harryman’s work is simply necessary: authentic, refreshing, and ultimately, wildly beautiful.