Like an eerie echo, the weight of loneliness makes a room heavy, makes its owner transform into a flare shot up into the night for everyone to gawk at. Or at least, that’s what Amber Walker posits in her second poetry chapbook, MY MOTHER CALLED ME A HERMIT.
Holding the mind like a limp body in her hands, Walker transforms the isolated experience into something frenetic and alive, shooting electricity through its limbs like a new god, poking it across the floor with a stick or desperately trying to ignore the ceaselessness of its low hum.
buy MY MOTHER CALLED ME A HERMIT here
poems from this collection:
RAT BASTARD ! // BLOATED // MY MOTHER CALLED ME A HERMIT
read a foreword for this collection here
here are a playlist and watchlist to accompany this collection