Doneva speaks of mourning, of the grief over a parent who has passed away. And of the anticipatory mourning for the other parent, who is fading away. Of the sorrow of loss—the physical loss and the one that’s harder to convey in conversation: you grieve for the person who is no longer the one you knew. And for the person you yourself once were.

This poetry collection contains a yearning for serenity and warmth (as in the poem where the father runs, hobbling, to tell his daughter how much he loves her), in the mother’s return—in dreams where she “walks and laughs”—and in the very sensation of absence that has a name. And so she is here. But also in the literal honesty through which readers, strangers to one another, will be able to grieve together, to free themselves together from the imperative to “get over” something, so as not to get in the way with their grief. So they can pay attention to it, listen to its nuances—the loss of meaning, what you don’t want to know about yourself, the inexplicable sense of guilt, the fear and the shades that are getting hard to name.

— Zornitsa Hristova

cover design by LUBA HALEVA