One of my frequent complaints about poetry is that so much of it feels “bloodless” — the poems may be beautiful, well-written, precise, and well-structured, but lack a certain life, a rawness to which I respond. Evie Christie can’t be charged with any such thing — these poems are visceral and kinetic, and even the poems I liked less had a raw edge to them. No snowy landscapes or quiet contemplation of nature here — you’re more likely to find broken bottles and loud sex in these poems. The first poetry book of the year (for me), and though I may end up reading better poems this year (we’ll see!) I don’t know if I will end up reading any poems with more vicious, animal vitality.