mscarbie's review against another edition
4.0
Thank you to the lads at Netgalley for a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review
Safia Elhillo writes beautifully even when describing the most awful experiences. It was hauntingly powerful. As well as being a joy to read, it has taught me a lot too. Wow wow wow
Safia Elhillo writes beautifully even when describing the most awful experiences. It was hauntingly powerful. As well as being a joy to read, it has taught me a lot too. Wow wow wow
readingwithkaitlyn's review against another edition
sad
fast-paced
4.0
Content Warnings
Graphic: Sexism and Misogyny
Moderate: Grief, Rape, Child abuse, Racial slurs, Sexual assault, Sexual harassment, Adult/minor relationship, Pedophilia, and Racism
Minor: Incest, Injury/Injury detail, Bullying, Blood, Stalking, Pregnancy, and Animal death
cwhalen1988's review against another edition
challenging
dark
emotional
reflective
sad
tense
fast-paced
4.0
jbmorgan86's review against another edition
4.0
“Girls That Never Die” is a contemporary poem collection by Sudanese-American poet, Safia Elhillo. All the poems here revolve around the themes of womanhood (particularly within the context of Islamic society). There are some graphic and disturbing, but also memorable poems here.
Standout poem:
ORPHEUS
Mold blooms on the yogurt, furring the edge
in ancient colors. My body is something I have worn
for other people. Even five years ago
I would not recognize myself today, married, gallon bags
of animal bone and corncobs in the freezer to boil for stock.
I am far away from the cities of my girlhood, cool concrete
of their stairwells. The new therapist wants a list of compliments
I’d give myself on behalf of those who love me, and all I can come up with
is resourceful. For a time I believed myself in love with Orpheus,
which only meant I loved what I could make if I were free
from what happened to my body. That man who would never
touch me, kept distant and without danger by the barriers of fiction.
When I believed the work would save me. I have no real use now
for those Greek myths, their dead girls, women raped by men
and animals. Today the door is locked. Today nobody is outside.
Muscle cramping mid-lap in the dark blue water. Now I embroider
flowers in dim colors in my new country of flowers, clumsy stitches
through the stencil of an orchid, remembering my younger mouth
pressed to a flute, unable to release the breath. I’d liked that he was a musician,
fingers long as spring onions. As a child I ruined my sweaters,
the sleeves tugged down to cover my hand before touching
any doorknob or handling coins. Teenaged, loitering, urgently lonely.
The cotton t-shirts curling at their sliced hems. Now I am thick-fingered
and practical as my mother and her mother, smell of bleach against ceramic.
Gone is L’s humid little apartment, violent stain on the bathroom tile, a bottle of
crimson nailpolish shattered long ago and leaving streaks like blood.
Her dirty living room where I slept for nights on end, though my own apartment
was nearby, cleaner—
I can’t imagine them, the poems that softened the hearts of gods,
the poems that changed anything.
That first cigarette I accepted, metal of the fire escape against my bare legs,
where she allowed me to tell the entire story
without using the real words. The night cooling and gathered close.
The way nothing ever feels truly clean
in summer. And all I know about Eurydice
is that she died. My every other fact about her is about him.
Standout poem:
ORPHEUS
Mold blooms on the yogurt, furring the edge
in ancient colors. My body is something I have worn
for other people. Even five years ago
I would not recognize myself today, married, gallon bags
of animal bone and corncobs in the freezer to boil for stock.
I am far away from the cities of my girlhood, cool concrete
of their stairwells. The new therapist wants a list of compliments
I’d give myself on behalf of those who love me, and all I can come up with
is resourceful. For a time I believed myself in love with Orpheus,
which only meant I loved what I could make if I were free
from what happened to my body. That man who would never
touch me, kept distant and without danger by the barriers of fiction.
When I believed the work would save me. I have no real use now
for those Greek myths, their dead girls, women raped by men
and animals. Today the door is locked. Today nobody is outside.
Muscle cramping mid-lap in the dark blue water. Now I embroider
flowers in dim colors in my new country of flowers, clumsy stitches
through the stencil of an orchid, remembering my younger mouth
pressed to a flute, unable to release the breath. I’d liked that he was a musician,
fingers long as spring onions. As a child I ruined my sweaters,
the sleeves tugged down to cover my hand before touching
any doorknob or handling coins. Teenaged, loitering, urgently lonely.
The cotton t-shirts curling at their sliced hems. Now I am thick-fingered
and practical as my mother and her mother, smell of bleach against ceramic.
Gone is L’s humid little apartment, violent stain on the bathroom tile, a bottle of
crimson nailpolish shattered long ago and leaving streaks like blood.
Her dirty living room where I slept for nights on end, though my own apartment
was nearby, cleaner—
I can’t imagine them, the poems that softened the hearts of gods,
the poems that changed anything.
That first cigarette I accepted, metal of the fire escape against my bare legs,
where she allowed me to tell the entire story
without using the real words. The night cooling and gathered close.
The way nothing ever feels truly clean
in summer. And all I know about Eurydice
is that she died. My every other fact about her is about him.
vivandbooks's review against another edition
dark
emotional
reflective
sad
medium-paced
4.0
The last half of the poems were the strongest and got the biggest emotional reaction from me.
oliviascheible's review against another edition
challenging
dark
emotional
mysterious
reflective
sad
medium-paced
4.0