For an entire week in September I ask my wife to feed me only Swiss chard. There is a day when I eat a can of tomatoes bigger than a toddler.
This is a 43-page small press book that fits easily in a pocket—a series of prose poems about bizarre deaths. I don’t write this kind of prose myself or read it very often, but I’ve developed an odd kind of respect for it, and enjoy it in small doses that evoke an emotional response before I move on. In that sense, this little book accomplishes that nicely.