Q: How do you breed contempt? A: Have a baby. Hey. It’s me. Your baby. Let me say, first off, that I love you. I do. You’re a great parent. You do a lot of things right. I know how devoted you are to me and how invested you are in hitting this whole parenting thing out of the playground. Okay. Now that I’ve given you the validation I know you need, let’s get a few things clear . . . I’m not as innocent as you think I am. You don’t realize it because you’re blinded by my sweet good looks, but I am aware of way more than I can convey. I feel more than I can express. I have more going on in my soft, little baby brain than you could possibly imagine. Until now. The book you’re holding finally reveals the complexities and nuances of my life so far. From my point of view. Unapologetic. Unplugged. Unswaddled. Be warned . . . it’s not always adorable.

Library of Small Catastrophes, Alison Rollins’ ambitious debut collection, interrogates the body and nation as storehouses of countless tragedies. Drawing from Jorge Luis Borges’ fascination with the library, Rollins uses the concept of the archive to offer a lyric history of the ways in which we process loss. “Memory is about the future, not the past,” she writes, and rather than shying away from the anger, anxiety, and mourning of her narrators, Rollins’ poetry seeks to challenge the status quo, engaging in a diverse, boundary-defying dialogue with an ever-present reminder of the ways race, sexuality, spirituality, violence, and American culture collide.