博客來In her second collection, Peyton weaves poems that are at once tender and terrible: hymns to muscle and motherhood, love songs laced with fresh grief, and manifestos for bodies that refuse to be trimmed to a trend. She writes as huntress and hearth-keeper, mother and lover, moving between vulnerability and ferocity with unflinching grace.
What makes this book sing is Peyton’s alchemy of the domestic and the mythic. A checkout-line promise of a ＂thirty-day bikini body＂ is answered by an anthem to the mother beneath our feet; a small-town open mic unfurls into a cartography of longing that remembers past lives and stakes future ones.
There are moments of wry humor and delicious defiance - a ＂crone witch summer＂ that cackles at the sun and refuses to tidy its edges - and passages of devastating tenderness where gardens, cabins, and the ordinary intimacies that stitch two people together finds center stage.
The final poems read like instructions for living and dying. Even in the most blunt reckonings-anger, jealousy, the ache of a love that might be otherworldly-this book offers a courage that is generous rather than self-protective.
This is a book for readers who want to be held by language that is of both earth and fire; for those who honor their bodies as landscape, who keep one foot in the kitchen and the other on the battlefield, and who believe that poetry can be a love potion, a sword, and a map.
