The subjects of poetry are the same: love and loss, sex and death and grief, family in all its permutations and complications. The differences are in the telling, and Kory Wells is a powerful teller. Her poems are as layered and dense as her grandmother's Red Velvet cake. What is it, she asks, that makes us want to swallow // a story whole? To think // only one version can be true? With a clear eye, she confronts the paradoxes that gender, race, and heritage present. She writes from a rootedness in her homeland that reaches down generations. She writes as a citizen of this troubled world: I'm unlearning the urge for a sugar fix like I'm unlearning // my threshold for what is acceptable, terrible, commonplace. // Tell me I don't have to unlearn hope. She does what we ask of the poet. All that we ask. --Marie Harris, former New Hampshire Poet Laureate
The subjects of poetry are the same: love and loss, sex and death and grief, family in all its permutations and complications. The differences are in the telling, and Kory Wells is a powerful teller. Her poems are as layered and dense as her grandmother's Red Velvet cake. What is it, she asks, that makes us want to swallow // a story whole? To think // only one version can be true? With a clear eye, she confronts the paradoxes that gender, race, and heritage present. She writes from a rootedness in her homeland that reaches down generations. She writes as a citizen of this troubled world: I'm unlearning the urge for a sugar fix like I'm unlearning // my threshold for what is acceptable, terrible, commonplace. // Tell me I don't have to unlearn hope. She does what we ask of the poet. All that we ask. --Marie Harris, former New Hampshire Poet Laureate