Can I just say that Jules Gibbs and her poems are some of my favorite weirdos? I mean, she’s an on-fire badass writer, and the poems!—the poems never stop moving, winding themselves around their glowing inner reactors, kicking their small (and large) feet through the roof of the sky. Sometimes they cry out in a storm because of the storm, but at other times they’re just hungry. They could eat an elk. They could drink the Milk Duds of the gods. These poems have a psychological and formal complexity to them that’s constantly shifting its weight—somehow always of the mind and the body both at once, of snakes and of babies. Weirdly, I am comforted, ‘Pow. Bang. / Right in the kisser.’