How to Sleep at Night
Elizabeth Harris
William Morrow, 2025, 304 pages
$23.19

Reviewed by Evelyn C. White

In How To Sleep At Night, Elizabeth Harris, an openly lesbian New York Times reporter, delivers a dynamic cast of characters working to reconcile their ambitions with the vagaries of life. A successful lawyer and public high school teacher, respectively, Ethan and Gabe are gay, married parents to Chloe, their five-year-old daughter.

Their suburban New Jersey world is upended when Ethan, a once-moderate Republican, decides to run for Congress. Gabe, a lifelong Democrat, sees “red.”

“Ethan had always been to Gabe’s right politically, and twenty years ago when they started dating, that was fine,” Harris writes, in her debut novel. “Gabe was so liberal there wasn’t much on his left anyway. . . But over time, Ethan’s views had shifted. . . As he became more conservative, the overlapping ground between them narrowed. Today, there was almost nothing left.”

In a move that evokes then Senator Barack Obama’s “I won’t run for President without your blessing” pledge to his skeptical wife, Ethan solicits his husband’s support before taking the plunge. “Gabe sat at their dining room table, still, and silent, panicking,” Harris continues.

The outcome? Roll tape for Ethan’s cadre of campaign managers, image consultants, and swank fundraisers for ultra-right-wing Republican donors. Then add Fang, an albino milk snake that Chloe receives as “compensation” because her aspiring Congressman dad (glad-handing 24/7) is no longer free to take her to school. Cue Gabe doing double-duty.

Overwhelmed by the upheaval in their home, Gabe declines when Ethan invites him to join a strategy session about his campaign. “It would be rude to add that he’d rather crawl across the West Side Highway blindfolded,” Harris writes with the arch humor that infuses the novel.

Running on parallel tracks in the quick-paced narrative, readers find Kate. She’s a high-profile reporter at a major newspaper who happens to be a lesbian and. . . Ethan’s sister. In addition to the stress of office politics, Kate is on the rebound from a failed relationship. Ready for a refresh, she reconnects with Nicole, a former lover who has since married a man (with a penchant for golf), and become a stay-at-home mom in a town of McMansions.

Can you say lesbian drama? About their erotically charged meet-ups, on the down-low, Harris writes: “As their third round arrived, Kate excused herself to go to the bathroom. Alone in a crowd of strangers, Nicole had a moment to sit with the fact that her drinking buddy was someone with whom she used to have lots of illicit sex. She took out her phone to text [her husband], who had made the kids chicken tenders, toast, and apple slices for dinner and encouraged Nicole to stay in the city as late as she wanted.”

By the time the tale winds down, opposition research has unearthed an unsavory episode in Ethan’s past and Gabe’s LGBTQIA+ students have gotten a hate on him because of his mate. Kate is called to account at her newspaper for an alleged ethical breach. A “rogue” photo on Nicole’s cellphone triggers, as the Temptations crooned, a “ball of confusion.” As snakes are wont to do, Fang slithers hither and yon.

Elizabeth Harris keeps readers turning the pages in her skillfully crafted queer saga, How To Sleep At Night.

Originally published in The Bay Area Reporter

Evelyn C. White A former reporter for The San Francisco Chronicle, Evelyn C. White is the author of the acclaimed biography Alice Walker: A Life and Chain Chain Change: For Black Women in Abusive Relationships. She is also the editor of The Black Women’s Health Book: Speaking For Ourselves.

Fragments of Wasted Devotion
Mia Arias Tsang, illustrated by Levi Wells
Quilted Press, 2025, 144 pages
$16.00

Reviewed by Allison Quinlan

Fragments of Wasted Devotion is an incredibly self-descriptive title. Before reading, I assumed it was the poetic, hooking title that so many collections use (and then vaguely connect to one piece in the work), but no, this is simply a collection of Tsang’s fragments of wasted devotions. She sets the reader up to know the story won’t end well: “My heart was too young to be settled,” and she proceeds to become devoted anyway: “but I laid it down on your chest anyway” (1). From the first line, she presents the reader with the question: What does one do with unrequited devotion?

The ‘fragments’ aspect of the title rings true as well. Each work tosses you into a story with little to no context, and you certainly won’t find out the conclusion here, either. Readers see a fragmented narrative where the only throughline you can grasp is the devotion, again and again, no matter the person, place, or time. I struggled with this a bit, but I think that’s because I personally wrestle with more poetic vignettes like this work, not due to any flaw in the book. However, given that the fragments of Tsang’s wasted devotions are the heart of this collection, I found this fragmented presentation of vignettes clever and intriguing.

I deeply appreciated the honesty in her writing. Who hasn’t wondered how to hold someone in their heart if they can’t “eat my groceries before they rot?” (8). You don’t have to have your whole life together to love someone deeply. Tsang also dips into the complicated truth of loving someone who has hurt you (I’m also a firm believer in holding love and anger in your heart at the same time). “Melatonin Dreams” is a three-part piece where Tsang describes the pain of recurring dreams about her partner; a house in New Haven that’s long, brown, and green “like a shotgun. . . I’m ready for you to blow my head off again” (34) and then writes, “I am still trying to protect you from the rage of everyone who wants me to be happy” (35). Don’t we all know it—you have long conversations with family and friends, tearing apart someone for how they treated you, but you have that inexplicable urge to defend them (not their actions necessarily, just them). It can feel hard to hate someone you’ve seen humanity in, no matter how they left you. She finishes, “It’s hell to be trapped behind my own eyes, letting you happen to me when I’m supposed to have control here” (38).

How much these experiences are actually in Tsang’s control, I’m not sure. She writes, “I am on edge and I am breaking my life to get to you because that is what I do for what I love” (42), and she buys the bus ticket, crossing cities to reach someone one hundred and forty-three point three miles away. And again, she writes that the people she loves ask, in horror, “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?” (44). But Tsang answers her own questions, and mine, and those of the people who love her, when she writes, “I touch the feral creature of my heart and ask is there anything left to give and it howls yes yes yes forever” (42). “Longing Distance” was my favourite section of the collection because it replicates a feeling I think many of us have experienced, to some degree, of putting the world on hold to get to someone we love who doesn’t necessarily return the effort. “I shouldn’t have had to beg,” she writes, “I wish I could want anything else” (67–68).

So what does one do with unrequited devotion? The reader is welcome to find their own answer. Tsang, for her part, “fade[s] to black with a heart bursting with all the love you wouldn’t take and I know I’ll forgive you anything” (111).

Lastly, on page 15, there is an illustration of a little creature with a face like this: (•⤙•), and I love it. I didn’t write about all the illustrations, but every one was absolutely gorgeous, full of whimsy, and engaging.

Allison Quinlan is a PhD student in Scotland and might be the world’s slowest writer.

All the Way to the River: Love, Loss, and Liberation
Elizabeth Gilbert
Riverhead Books, 2025, 400 pages
$35.00

Reviewed by Cassandra Langer

Elizabeth Gilbert, global sweetheart of women’s magazines, TED Talks royalty, and patron saint of anyone who ever wanted to eat their way around the world, has returned with a new memoir. This one is not about finding love in Bali or mastering yoga in an Indian ashram. No, All the Way to the River is Gilbert’s full-throttle plunge into grief, queerness, addiction, mystical visitations, and the kind of emotional mayhem most of us would only confess under anesthesia.

This is not a beach read. It’s a fasten-your-seatbelts-for-a-bumpy-ride-and-maybe-book-an-appointment-with-your-therapist-after-you-finish book.

Gilbert begins with a visitation from her late partner, Rayya Elias, whose spirit seems far too opinionated to stay politely deceased. People may roll their eyes at such things, but I’m not one of them.

After my beloved dog died, I returned home to an apartment so empty it echoed. I clutched her leash like a Victorian widow and wept into her water bowl. The next morning, a disgusting, toilet-water-soaked tennis ball—yes, that one, the one I threw out—appeared on my pillow. I didn’t scream. I thought, “Oh. So that’s how it’s going to be.”

So when Gilbert talks about Rayya dropping in from the great beyond, I’m right there with her. Some of us get messages from the dead. Some get comfort. Some get ghostly tennis balls.

Gilbert’s memoir is a wild mosaic, equal parts emotional demolition derby, spiritual travelogue, queer romance, and New Age interpretive dance. At moments, it feels like The Killing of Sister George wandered off, took mushrooms, and started reading Jean Genet.

She tells us right away: “I couldn’t believe I had sunk this low.” And to her credit, she means it every time. Gilbert dives from one high to the next: emotional, spiritual, narcotic, romantic. It’s like watching a very literary pinball machine: bing, new obsession. Bong, new crisis. Ding, new mystical revelation.

And somehow it’s both maddening and completely relatable. Who hasn’t, in a moment of loneliness, reached for something questionable? Maybe not a controlled substance or a penthouse rental, but we’ve all been there in spirit.

At the heart of the book is Gilbert’s care for Rayya as she dies from pancreatic and liver cancer, a journey as tender as it is terrifying. Gilbert is loving, terrified, overwhelmed, generous, impulsive, broke, extravagant, sober, not sober, heartbroken, hopeful, and hysterically human. Sometimes all in the same paragraph.

Eventually, she lands in a twelve-step program, declaring that after contemplating murder, suicide, or possibly both on alternate Thursdays, it was time to “ask for help.” A sensible conclusion, really.

She writes with naked honesty, sometimes too naked, the way someone overshares in a group therapy session, and you suddenly find yourself rooting for them against your will.

This memoir is not for everyone, especially not for highly critical readers, but co-dependent lesbians will lap it up. It is for:

● people who fall in love like they’re leaping off cliffs
● people who grieve like the world is ending (because it is, for them)
● people who can’t resist one more emotional thrill ride
● people who have ever seen a sign from the dead and want a near-death experience

Others may find the book unbearable, too intense, too mystical, or too steeped in the spiritual equivalent of rainbow smoothies.

But Gilbert herself? She is a tangled, addictive, self-aware mess. And she knows it.

All the Way to the River is not tidy or transcendent in the way Gilbert’s earlier memoirs were. But it is deeply human, fiercely loving, unintentionally funny at times, and full of the chaos that happens when you’re trying to hold on to the living while being haunted—spiritually, emotionally, sometimes literally—by the dead.

By the last page, you may still not understand Elizabeth Gilbert, but you will absolutely appreciate her.

After all, most of us are just one heartbreak, one impulse purchase, or one ghostly tennis ball away from the river ourselves.

Cassandra Langer lives in Jackson Heights, New York, where she writes and reviews books, and makes art under the watchful eye of a very demanding calico. She is a contributor to The Gay & Lesbian Review, Ms. Magazine, Sinister Wisdom, and is the author of Romaine Brooks: A Life. She is currently completing her second volume of a two-book anti-conversion memoir, consisting of Erase Her: A Survivor’s Story (available at Amazon in Kindle and soft cover) and working on The Other Side Of The Rainbow: Growing Through Trauma. https://theothersideoftherainbow.org/

Intrepid Girls: The Complicated History of the Girl Scouts of the USA
Amy Erdman Farrell
The University of North Carolina Press, 2025, 320 pages
$35.00

Reviewed by Atlanta Tsiaoukkas

In Intrepid Girls: The Complicated History of the Girl Scouts of the USA, Amy Erdman Farrell takes on the momentous task of documenting, with painstaking attention to detail, the multifaceted and complex history of the Girl Scouts of the USA (GSUSA). Farrell impressively spans the life of this American institution from the mythologies built up around its founder, Juliette Gordon Low, all the way to how the organisation now manages competing accusations of wokeness and conservatism. Farrell has provided a definitive account of the GSUSA which builds remarkably on previous histories in breadth, perceptiveness, and a willingness to acknowledge the organisation’s complicity in regimes of oppression.

Intrepid Girls unearths a number of significant events in the GSUSA’s over a hundred-year history and it is immediately evident that this is an extensively researched project involving many years hard at work in GSUSA archives. Beginning with the organisation’s origins as an improvement upon the United Kingdom’s imperialist Girl Guides, Farrell takes the reader through Girl Scouting’s early years, its government-sanctioned involvement in both American Indian residential schools and Japanese-American incarceration camps, and its persistent failure to desegregate and support African-American Girl Scouts throughout the twentieth century. From its initial history as a conformist organisation working hand-in-hand with the US government to assimilate girls of colour, indigenous girls, and immigrant girls, the organisation is accused of sowing subversion increasingly in the later years of the twentieth century into the twenty-first century. Caught up in McCarthyism, disputes over sex education, and endorsement of the United Nations, the GSUSA undergoes socio-cultural changes which shift it from a stalwart of patriotism to a threat to family values.

Central to Farrell’s narrativising of the history of the GSUSA is identifying the ‘strategies of innocence’ used in response to attacks from all sides of the political spectrum. Presenting Girl Scouts as inherently innocent, unable and unwilling to discuss controversial topics or politicised issues, Farrell shows how the GSUSA persistently engages in a ‘dangerous innocence’ which denies its complicity in oppressive regimes under the guise of girlishness. Farrell is expertly able to follow this thread throughout the GSUSA’s story, acknowledging how silence and a desire to please all stakeholders all the time, even at the expense of Girl Scouts themselves, has led to an organisation fraught with doing too little, too late. Essential to this history is Farrell’s repeated interrogations of an organisation that seeks to promote girls’ leadership, whilst consistently refusing to name which girls are leading, and to where they are expected to lead. Intrepid Girls asks hard questions about how the GSUSA represents itself to the public, and how these representations are grounded in a history of deploying whiteness as innocence and neutrality as apoliticalness.

Alongside Farrell’s thorough research, the story of the Girl Scouts is enhanced by reflections on her own involvement in the organisation. Chapter Ten offers an account of Farrell’s 1975 pilgrimage to Juliette Gordon Low’s birthplace in Savannah, Georgia, with her Girl Scout troop. In providing this snippet of personal history, Farrell presents a case study for her claims about the GSUSA’s silence and feigned ignorance on social issues relating to oppression. She highlights how Low’s social position in the late nineteenth century as a wealthy heiress in the South, bolstered by both slavery and taking land from American Indians, provided the seeds for the GSUSA. Yet twelve-year-old Farrell was taught nothing about slavery, stolen land, or how these enabled the existence of the troop in which she found so much community. As such, Farrell offers a poignant account of what happens when innocence is adopted as a ploy to evade unpleasant histories and perpetuate hero-worship of real, complicated people. The inclusion of Farrell’s personal insights is a boon to this work of history, emphasising the real and lived impacts of the Girl Scouts, both positive and negative.

Intrepid Girls: The Complicated History of the Girl Scouts of the USA is a work of impressive depth and a significant contribution to our knowledge of the GSUSA as an organisation that now represents a major aspect of American culture, known throughout the world. Farrell’s analysis exceeds that of a facts-driven history, offering an analytical lens on the strategies and actions of the GSUSA which forces us to look past the sweet-as-pie façade of the Girl Scouts and examine its deeper, messier, complex history.

Atlanta Tsiaoukkas is a UK-based writer and researcher currently working towards a PhD on queer Victorian schoolgirls and their homoerotic friendships. Find her on Instagram @aatlanta_aa and Substack girlishh.substack.com.

Neo-Victorian Lesbians on Screen
Sarah E. Maier and Rachel M. Friars
Anthem Press, 2025, 226 pages
$110.00

Reviewed by Atlanta Tsiaoukkas

Neo-Victorian Lesbians on Screen begins with a discussion of the 2021 SNL skit “Lesbian Period Drama.” This introduction documents the notorious rise across popular culture of visual media tropes depicting frail Victorian women engaged in tense romantic affairs. Accepting the display of satire as confirmation, Sarah E. Maier and Rachel M. Friars study neo-Victorian cinema and television in the past twenty-five years that center lesbianism, asking why filmmakers are drawn to the long nineteenth century when narrating queer female-centered stories.

Beginning with the early 2000s adaptations of Sarah Waters’ novels—Tipping the Velvet, Affinity, and Fingersmith—which triggered an enthusiasm for indulgent narratives of queer Victorian romance, Maier and Friars guide the reader through a broad range of material. Focusing on British and North American productions, with the notable exception of Céline Sciamma’s film Portrait of a Lady on Fire, it is undoubtable that this monograph represents the most complete assessment thus far of the lesbian period drama as a subgenre of historical cinema. Their forays into the American West with Godless (Frank) and The World to Come (Fastvold) were particularly insightful in their expansion of the geographic landscape of what is considered neo-Victorian cinema, examining how the conventionally masculine genre of the Western is queered by the inclusion of lesbian stories.

At times, Maier and Friars’ survey would have benefitted from a tighter focus, particularly in those chapters on biofictions like Lizzie (Macneil) and Ammonite (Lee), where the details of the cinematic narrative and historical accuracy meander far from the text’s central focus on lesbians on screen. Overall, Maier and Friars tell a contemporary nuanced story about declining spectacle in the depiction of neo-Victorian lesbian performances while emphasizing the emotional dimensions of these romantic relationships.

Despite frequently turning to the perspectives of directors in their analysis of neo-Victorian cinema, I was surprised to find that Maier and Friars spent little time considering the lack of lesbian professionals involved in the production of these films and television series. Across their selected corpus, only two leading actors publicly identify as queer: Kristen Stewart of Lizzie and Adéle Haenel of Portrait of a Lady on Fire. Similarly, only one director of the included films identifies as a lesbian, Sciamma, also of Portrait of a Lady on Fire. For a monograph that generously turns to the authority of the director on many occasions, this absence will be apparent to any lesbian reader wondering why period dramas rarely include lesbians in the creation of lesbian stories.

A similar limitation may be noted in the decision to use the term ‘lesbian’ over more inclusive terminology. Lesbian is not a term that is used frequently in neo-Victorian period dramas, since it is an identifier that only came to popular usage in the twentieth century. Its modern use in describing both real historical people and fictional portrayals of neo-Victorians on screen risks rendering some women characters’ sexualities less visible. Not all the women depicted in Maier’s and Friars’ corpus are shown as exclusively interested in relationships with other women—in The Confessions of Frannie Langton (Harkin), for example, Marguerite also has relationships with men. Whilst the last quarter century of neo-Victorian representation has affirmed that lesbians did exist in the past, the existing scholarship has not made sufficient room for the possibility of bi- and pansexualities, which continue to be historical and cinematic impossibilities.

Maier and Friars’ Neo-Victorian Lesbians on Screen offers a valuable retrospective of the rich neo-Victorian lesbian narratives in the first decades of the twenty-first century that I hope will ignite enthusiasm for further investigations. Their multifaceted analysis, encompassing feminist, queer, and decolonial insights, is a significant contribution to the field.

Atlanta Tsiaoukkas is a UK-based writer and researcher currently working towards a PhD on queer Victorian schoolgirls and their homoerotic friendships. Find her on Instagram @aatlanta_aa and Substack girlishh.substack.com.

Ooops…I Just Catharted! Fifty Years of Cathartic Comics
Rupert Kinnard
Stacked Deck Press, 2025, 278 pages
$34.95

Reviewed by Julia M. Allen

Allow me to introduce to you Professor I. B. Gittendowne, otherwise known as Rupert Kinnard, the creator of the first Black gay and lesbian comic strip. The strip ran for over twenty years in a variety of alternative and queer periodicals, and now, Kinnard has collected these pointedly hilarious gems into a beautifully designed and produced 11 ¾” by 9 ¼” hardcover volume: Ooops…I Just Catharted! Fifty Years of Cathartic Comics. Beginning with his first cartoon character, the Brown Bomber, Professor I. B. Gittendowne deploys the most effective and universally available persuasive tool—humor—to topple racist, sexist, and homophobic absurdities. The four-panel strip grew to feature two inimitable main characters: the Brown Bomber and Diva Touché Flambé. Perpetually nineteen years old, the Brown Bomber (named after boxing champ Joe Louis) is an endearingly innocent, buff, single-gloved, non-violent gay superhero; his side-kick, Diva, is a Ph.D.-holding lesbian educator—honoring, Kinnard tells us, the many strong, intelligent women in his life. Together, the two create a depth of social analysis and action that could not have been achieved by a single character.

In 278 lavishly-illustrated pages, Kinnard tells the story of how he developed the strip over the years. A native of Chicago, Kinnard began his artistic career as a student at Cornell College, a small liberal arts school in Mt. Vernon, Iowa. At first, the strip’s only regular character was the Brown Bomber (B.B.), who appeared in the weekly student newspaper, addressing various institutional problems. B.B. was joined at times by the Vanilla Cremepuff, a barely disguised college president, viewed askance for clueless inaction on racial issues. After three and a half years—and wildly-successful campus Brown Bomber T-shirt sales—the Brown Bomber came out as gay.

After graduating in 1979 and moving to Portland, Oregon, Kinnard began publishing Brown Bomber strips in a short-lived local gay and lesbian newspaper, the NW Fountain. A few years later, the Brown Bomber began gracing the pages of a new queer publication, Just Out, where he was soon joined by Diva Touché Flambé, who offered transformative visions and actions to assuage the Brown Bomber’s dismay at the irrationality he often encountered. In addition to occasionally displaying certain mystical powers when nothing else would suffice—e.g., turning an unrepentant LA police officer into a pig—Diva introduces a therapeutic device called slapthology, promoting clear thinking in the recalcitrant with a slap upside the head. “Wow!” says a character, post-slap, “My mind feels as fresh as a breath mint! I guess most written history has centered around the accomplishments of white people!” Kinnard reflects, “I saw myself as being part Diva and part Bomber.”

A job loss in Portland led Kinnard to move to the Bay Area, where Cathartic Comics flourished in the SF Weekly, an alternative paper, for seven years. During this time, Kinnard reinvented his author persona as Prof. I. B. Gittendowne. When the SF Weekly changed hands, ending that paper’s run of Cathartic Comics, Kinnard returned to Portland. Kinnard’s involvement in a life-changing car accident brought the weekly strip to a close, but did not alter the enthusiasm of his fan base or change Kinnard’s dedication to the persuasive use of art and humor as an avenue to social justice. We can only be grateful that he has spent his recent years compiling and designing this celebration of B.B. and the Diva.

Ooops…I Just Catharted! features hundreds of Cathartic Comics strips which otherwise would have vanished along with the newsprint on which they appeared. The artistry is superb, every panel full of energy as characters interact with each other and react to their world’s latest outrages. The Brown Bomber almost always looks the same—wearing the same tennis shoes and over-sized athletic socks, the same shorts, same cape, same boxing glove on his right hand, same scarf tied on his head. The elegant Diva, however, rarely wears the same outfit twice.

In the text accompanying the strips and other illustrations, Kinnard describes both his choices of drawing tools and his artistic and graphic design education. He narrates the development of Cathartic Comics from his childhood to 2025, providing explanatory detail for strips that comment on events with which some readers may not be familiar, such as Ronald Reagan’s gaffe during the 1988 Republican National Convention when he tried to say, “facts are stubborn things,” but actually said, “facts are stupid things.”

Occasionally, I found myself losing the thread of the narrative text as I immersed myself in strip after strip from a given era. Later, I discovered two compact chronologies near the end of the book. I’d suggest that readers look at these first for an overview, then read from the beginning. I should also add that some typos, misspellings, and punctuation errors have crept into the text, but, while unfortunate, they do not lead to misreadings.

Ooops…I Just Catharted! offers hours of joyful reading, just when we need it.

Julia M. Allen is Professor Emerita, English, Sonoma State University. She is the author of Passionate Commitments: The Lives of Anna Rochester and Grace Hutchins, SUNY Press, 2013 and co-author with Jocelyn H. Cohen of Women Making History: The Revolutionary Feminist Postcard Art of Helaine Victoria Press, Lever Press, 2023.

Encounters for the Living and the Dead
Jameela F. Dallis
River River Books, 2025, 106 pages
$18.00

Reviewed by Beth Brown Preston

Encounters for the Living and the Dead is a first collection of poetry by Jameela F. Dallis. She opens this rich and fecund poetic exploration with an epigraph quoted from bell hooks’ All About Love: New Visions: “No matter what has happened in our past, when we open our hearts to love we can live as if born again, not forgetting the past but seeing it in a new way, letting it live inside us in a new way” (hooks, 129). With this epigraph, the poet introduces us to the organic function of memory and the connection to our past as she both mourns and celebrates our ancestors, grandmothers, cousins, and friends. She continues: “Altarworks are poems for people who’ve passed on—some I’ve known and loved. I imagine the poems being a part of an altar thick with candles and melted wax like my own” (85).

The presence of death in life, appearing like a pearl inside an oyster, forms a recurrent theme in her work, as in her poem titled “Three of Swords”:

I remember smelling the sweat, the turpentine— / that scent that was always always reminding me that you would die. / That scent the shape of something rotten, maybe fecund, / but still something I wish I could walk into again— / its memory is something that resurrects / my worry for you and then dissolves (11).

An oyster appears in many of her poems as a symbol of the poet’s eternal love for the sea. For example, in her poem “See Me Now,” the poet describes the fortune she had to cross the ocean four times, to travel throughout Europe, and to dine on gourmet food in many countries. She relishes seafood as she feeds her imagery: “Himalayan black salt / and pink rare salmon swim into / the silver threads of memory” in “I, Origin” (19). Jameela writes of her insistent love for the food and memories of the sea: “Holding onto my oyster dreams / nowhere to be / released from weighty history I gather my dreams / sup at your banquet” in “Oyster Dreams” (38).

Ekphrastic verse pervades this lush collection. Jameela writes poems to celebrate the paintings of artists like Henri Matisse and Robert Motherwell. She devotes the entire section three to “Ekphrastic Encounters”—poems in tribute to the work of other artists from David Bowie to Helen Frankenthaler. In the Notes, she records:

Henri Matisse’s ‘Les Betes De La Mer (1950)’ inspires not only the eponymous poem but resonates throughout the entire second part. In what feels like kismet, in high school, I completed a master copy of Matisse’s work when I thought I’d become a professional visual artist one day. . . Thus, passionate love, heartbreak, cheekiness, and more research into marine life than I ever imagined imbue this. . . book (86).

This fine debut collection is presented with the blessing of poets—Gabrielle Calvocoressi, Jaki Shelton Green, Alexis Pauline Gumbs, Emilia Phillips, and Jameela’s “mentors, teachers, professors, advisors, family members, and benevolent ancestors. . .” (90). Gabrielle Calvocoressi has written about Dallis: “So few of us are willing to experience life fully if it means being confronted with our deepest hungers and the deep harms we have been forced to live through. So few of us can sit with the living and the dead with the kind of generosity that Dallis does, the deep curiosity, the love” (Praise).

The poet Jameela F. Dallis is a resident of Durham, North Carolina. Her publications include poetry, interviews, art criticism, and literary scholarship. Her work has appeared in prestigious journals such as Feminist Studies, Honey Literary, and The Fight and the Fiddle under the auspices of the Furious Flower Poetry Center. Jameela holds a B.A. in English from the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque and an M.A. and Ph.D. in English from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.

Beth Brown Preston is a poet and novelist. A graduate of Bryn Mawr College and the MFA Writing Program of Goddard College, she has been a CBS Fellow in Writing at the University of Pennsylvania and a Bread Loaf Scholar. Her work has appeared and is forthcoming in many literary and scholarly journals.

Where Shadows Meet
Patrice Caldwell
Wednesday Books, 2025, 320 pages
$20.00

Reviewed by Mandee Loney

Where Shadows Meet by Patrice Caldwell is a young adult novel perfect for lovers of vampires and those looking for a Black lesbian romantasy. Though the book falls into the YA category, it deals with some adult themes, as described by the author:

“Please know that this story contains depictions of blood (including the drinking of blood), death (including that of multiple family members), kidnapping, psychological abuse, murder, systems of oppression (pulling from my family’s history in the American South and the use of enslaved Black people as disposable labor but of course unfortunately relating to many different people across the world), and violence of all sorts. There’s also a character who has self-harmed and the showing of, and reference to, those scars. The actual self-harm occurred years prior and is not depicted.”

While these themes can be heavy, each develops both characters and plot. One character, Najja, experiences multiple deeply traumatic events that spur her into action, and Caldwell handles each instance with care and makes sure to not glorify them. Caldwell’s family history adds another layer to the text, as this history informs the world Caldwell creates.

The story follows the point of view of three main characters: Favre, Leyla, and Najja. A fourth character, Thana, appears in many of Favre’s chapters, but does not have any written from her perspective. Caldwell hooks readers immediately with a captivating fairytale-esque narrative of two young goddesses meeting in an enchanted forest. Favre, who is a touch naive, encounters Thana, who seemingly has ulterior motives.

The narrative then skips to over a thousand years later, when we are introduced to Najja, a girl born with the gift of prophecy, and Leyla, soon to be Queen of the Mnaran vampires. In the first half of the novel, Caldwell’s focus is the careful development of each character with nuanced personalities.

The plot can be somewhat difficult to follow at times, as there are frequent shifts between both time and characters’ points of view. However, readers who untangle the timeline will be rewarded with rich parallels between the pair of characters in each time period. Caldwell juxtaposes the somewhat toxic relationship between Thana and Favre with the blossoming relationship between Najja and Leyla, prompting readers to question—what should someone sacrifice in the name of love?

While the pacing of Where Shadows Meet feels a little off-kilter at times, Caldwell has crafted a compelling premise with room to build on the foundation of this mythical world. This sapphic take on the vampire origin story plays the incredibly important role of centering Black lesbian characters in a genre that often excludes them.

Mandee Loney interned with Sinister Wisdom and is continuing her pursuit of a career in editing and publishing.

The Lamb
Lucy Rose
Harper, 2025, 336 pages
$22.39

Reviewed by Sydney Minor

Lucy Rose’s debut novel, The Lamb, blends elements of folktale, horror, and coming-of-age genres to craft a deeply original story about cannibalism and what it can metaphorically represent. The use of cannibalism as a metaphor in art and literature dates back to Greek mythology and early modern literature, but it has experienced a resurgence in recent years with works like Yellowjackets, Bones and All, Fresh, A Certain Hunger, and Tender Is the Flesh.

I approached the novel with some skepticism, concerned it might be derivative or capitalizing on a trend. Instead, I found it to be one of the most allegorically rich interpretations of this trope.
The story follows Margot, a young girl living on a homestead near the wilderness, raised in a household where cannibalism is the norm. Her mother, Mama, takes in strays—lost and wandering travelers—makes them comfortable, then kills them to use as food. When another woman, Eden, stumbles upon the homestead and embeds herself into the family, the dynamic Margot is used to begins to shift. As the story unfolds, tension builds toward an inevitable conclusion.

Both Margot and Mama grapple with inner conflicts that linger throughout the novel. Margot begins to question the morality of Mama’s actions, while also confronting her own emerging sexuality. Mama, on the other hand, struggles with her identity as a mother and the tension between that role and her personal autonomy. These internal battles are reflected in their relationships with consumption. Margot, for instance, eats a strand of her crush’s hair, hoping it will keep her close, while Mama’s relentless hunger mirrors her desire for independence and selfhood.

The novel also offers a compelling exploration of the theoretical concept of abjection. Coined by philosopher Julia Kristeva and often used in horror analysis, abjection refers to the human response of horror or disgust when faced with a breakdown in meaning—typically when social order collapses or the boundary between self and other disintegrates. These boundaries form the foundation of identity, morality, and stability, so their dissolution provokes deep psychological discomfort.

Cannibalism is perhaps the most taboo, and therefore abject, subject in horror. To make it more palatable or comprehensible, narratives often depict the cannibal as animalistic or the victim as less than human. The Lamb employs both: Mama sees her victims—the strays—as subhuman, while Margot increasingly views Mama as monstrous for her actions.

The most powerful aspect of the novel is the atmosphere and setting that Rose constructs through deliberate ambiguity. Much like a fairytale, The Lamb takes place in an unspecified time and location—an ambiguous part of England. The homestead feels otherworldly in its descriptions, yet occasional references to televisions or telephones snap the reader back to a recognizable reality. About a quarter of the book occurs at Margot’s school or during her bus rides, further grounding the story and amplifying its tragedy through contrast with the everyday world.

The novel is also highly readable. With around seventy chapters, each only three to five pages long, it’s easy to move through quickly—I finished it in about two days. While this structure may reflect a broader cultural shift toward shorter attention spans, it also builds a strong sense of momentum and looming dread as the story progresses.

The Lamb is a dark, genre-defying, and thought-provoking novel that will keep you on edge from beginning to end.

Sydney Minor (she/her) is a New York-born, London-based writer and musician currently interning with Sinister Wisdom. She recently completed her undergraduate studies at the Royal College of Music and will begin a master’s in musicology at Cambridge University this autumn, with a focus on the intersection of queer studies and twentieth-century opera. You can find more of her ramblings regarding music, art, and culture on her Substack, Salome’s Veil.

In Thrall
Jane DeLynn
Semiotext(e), 2024, 272 pages
$17.95

Reviewed by Lindsey Blaser

“Of course not, my dear, every quiver of your feverish sensibility holds me in thrall (143).”

Jane DeLynn’s In Thrall is a delicious read charting the affair between a budding lesbain and her English teacher in 1960s New York. While the inappropriate dynamic of the pair’s relationship is the hook, it’s far from the purpose of this novel.

Our hopelessly tragic protagonist, Lynn, is a timeless representation of many queer women’s experiences. Dismaying moments of forgetting to breathe, not being able to eat her Milky Way breakfasts anymore, and inexplicably being drawn to someone no one else understands—are niche experiences that broadly hold familiarity for the vast majority of queer youth.

The novel avoids delving into the intricacies of the couple’s relationship, especially their sexual encounters, and focuses instead on transferrable moments of Lynn’s queer adolescence. Lynn speaks only of unsavory experiences with her clumsy boyfriend, Wolf, so that all we read is of jamming fingers and coercion. When Lynn and Miss Maxfield enter the bedroom, it feels like a curtain closes, and the reader is left with a privacy which feels respectful, non-sexualized, and tender.

Miss Maxfield, having multiple student affairs in the past, is most objectively a predator. But it doesn’t feel that way as you read it. DeLynn wrote a novel in which bits of their interactions feel special and Miss Maxfield seems nurturing, which is conflicting as a reader. One is left to wrestle with the question of whether or not any part of their relationship is endorsable. And of course, it isn’t. Why the women are even attracted to one another is a mystery, feeling underdeveloped and vague, as if some otherworldly force is drawing the two together. What is it Lynn even likes about her? What do we, as readers, even like about Lynn?

Quippy remarks with her friends, an unbreachable wall up with her parents, and new vocabulary flaunted as soon as she learns it, are features that make Lynn relatable. The reader regresses to feeling like a teenage girl, especially one unraveling her sexuality. Lynn jumps to tragic extremes, finds her boyfriend disgusting (yet keeps him on the side), and panics when she reads fear-mongering homophobic texts. Basking in a tragic hero state, she believes a life of loneliness, crew cuts, and wearing green on Mondays is all that awaits her as lesbian. It’s almost healing to read this in 2025 and say, “My dear. . . ” alongside Miss Maxfield. How good things will become for us all!

Therein lies the draw to Miss Maxfield, someone who can offer assurance that Lynn’s identity isn’t life-ruining. She is someone who we, as twenty-first-century readers, view as a lifeline, while Lynn toys with the idea of throwing herself off a roof. Miss Maxfield is a voice of queer reason, giving Lynn grounds to believe it is more than okay to be gay. I just wish she was 16, too.

Lindsey Blaser holds a bachelor’s degree in Critical Diversity Studies from the University of San Francisco, and is a Sinister Wisdom intern based in New Jersey.