“Jen Michalski’s second novel is an intense emotional commitment, but a worthwhile one.” – Ploughshares
“Jen is an astonishingly sensitive writer.” – HTML Giant
“Jen Michalski excels in subtlety that is made possible by her nuanced understanding of voice.” – The Rumpus
“Jen is a writerly heavyweight.” – Nate Brown, American Short Fiction
“We’re lucky to have Michalski before the rest of the world discovers her. But they will.” – Baltimore City Paper
I dreamed of my grandmother last night. My brother and I were in a bedroom of heavy old furniture and she walked out of the bathroom, shampoo in her hair. I haven't gotten dressed yet, she explained, and even hitched up her dress to show me she was naked underneath. I don't care, it's been so long, I answered, hugging her. She was real, soft skin and fat and hard bone and cold shampoo. How did that get out? She took a folded, multipaged, browning letter off the bureau. I wondered whether it was a letter from a former lover, a never lover, a wanted lover. I wondered what other secrets she had taken to her grave, what secrets you and I will take our last breath without speaking. I wonder, when I poke holes in the velvety blue paper and hold it to the light, whether you will believe they are stars. We can can pretend they are long dead,their light still reaching us. We will be the last thing they touch. They will be the last thing that touches us, our eyes shut, covers close, pretending we haven't woken.