In Wring Your Hands Until They Sing, DeLuca shapeshifts fluidly and incisively, inhabiting a spectrum of animal, mechanical, historical, and even botanical voices. Yet none of the poems allow the reader to forget that for all the fun of the imagining, the game is deadly serious, and achingly human. Whether shining a stark light on the surreal cycles of national politics; embodying the loneliness of a cactus in spare, spiky lines; or taking on the voice of Schroedinger's cat to interrogate the whims of the powerful, each experiment of language takes its own thrilling stab at a haunting question: what does it mean to be a person in 2018?
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