Stevie Edwards' debut book of poetry, Good Grief, catalogues their elegantly-wrought misadventures as a freshly-graduated, Michigan transplant stumbling over foal legs through Chicago and kneeling down to confront the wreckage of their skinned knees.
Whether stopping to disinter some small ruin of a secondhand-clothes childhood, charting the reaches of their own privilege as a white person in Chicago, or trying to recollect the reasoning behind last night's bar receipts, Stevie's voice - a treble, equal parts angst and grace - rumbles deep down in the belly of their poems, and lingers.
