In the world of Jericho Brown's second book, disease runs through the body, violence runs through the neighborhood, memories run through the mind, trauma runs through generations. Almost eerily quiet in even the bluntest of poems, Brown gives us the ache of a throat that has yet to say the hardest thing-and the truth is coming on fast. Fairy Tale, Say the shame I see inching like steam, Along the streets will never seep, Beneath the doors of this bedroom, And if it does, if we dare to breathe ,Tell me that though the world ends us, Lover, it cannot end our love, Of narrative. Don't you have a story For me?-like the one you tell, With fingers over my lips to keep me From sighing when-before the queen Is kidnapped-the prince bows To the enemy, handing over the horn Of his favorite unicorn like those men, Brought, bought, and whipped until They accepted their masters' names.
