A review by nicobellfiction
Apocalyptic Mannequin: The Definition of Body is Buried, by Stephanie M. Wytovich
5.0
We’re in the middle of coronovirus social distancing. I’m keeping myself and my family tucked away in our home, and I figured this would be the perfect time to catch on some light reading. Enter The Apocalyptic Mannequin. I’ve had my eye on this collection of poems since it started swirling around social media, and when I got a chance to review it, I jumped at the opportunity. What followed was a heavy experience through the end of days like none other.
Wytovich is a master of horror poetry. Her prose drips off the page with a deep visceral connection to readers. Perhaps it’s because of the current virus, but these poems tugged at my deepest fears and created an eerie landscape of humanity at the end of its reign. This reads much like a warning with strong feminist vibes. Our narrator is plagued by a nuclear disaster which leaves the Earth in ruins and people struggling to find a new way of existence as the power goes out, the survivors become savage, and everyone begins to fend for themselves. The poem that impacted me the most was “Saints Don’t Spread Their Legs.” Here’s a brief excerpt from that piece:
I stopped drinking holy water at fourteen,
told my father that the knives in my back made it hard to sleep,
how the visions in my head brought locusts in my room,
their chirps a reminder that with spread legs and evil thoughts,
my body, my chapel was constantly being watched ( Wytovich 46).
Brilliant, yes?
The structure and composition of the poems read more like a novel, which is great for anyone intimidated by poetry. There’s a familiar storytelling prose connecting each piece and weaving you from start to finish. Once you begin, you won’t be able to set it down. If you’ve never read horror poetry, this is the place to start.
Wytovich is a master of horror poetry. Her prose drips off the page with a deep visceral connection to readers. Perhaps it’s because of the current virus, but these poems tugged at my deepest fears and created an eerie landscape of humanity at the end of its reign. This reads much like a warning with strong feminist vibes. Our narrator is plagued by a nuclear disaster which leaves the Earth in ruins and people struggling to find a new way of existence as the power goes out, the survivors become savage, and everyone begins to fend for themselves. The poem that impacted me the most was “Saints Don’t Spread Their Legs.” Here’s a brief excerpt from that piece:
I stopped drinking holy water at fourteen,
told my father that the knives in my back made it hard to sleep,
how the visions in my head brought locusts in my room,
their chirps a reminder that with spread legs and evil thoughts,
my body, my chapel was constantly being watched ( Wytovich 46).
Brilliant, yes?
The structure and composition of the poems read more like a novel, which is great for anyone intimidated by poetry. There’s a familiar storytelling prose connecting each piece and weaving you from start to finish. Once you begin, you won’t be able to set it down. If you’ve never read horror poetry, this is the place to start.