“Part homage, part rebuke, part domestic cri de coeur, <i>Dear Wallace</i> levels a nervy, philosophical critique at the myth of male genius and the American dream. Supreme fictions be damned. Here are notes toward a subversive, feminist reality.”—Suzanne Buffam, author of <i>A Pillow Book</i>

“With one part whimsy, one part despair, and a snogger of wry wit, Choffel drops us into the most halcyon disturbance ever to wake the dead. Here are the residues of our times: grief, parental exhaustion, a proclivity to avoid pants, proffered with restraint and tonal finesse to match her interlocutor, Wallace Stevens. From a domestic abyss that is gritty and abiding, these poems call to us, and with the grace of a gravedigger’s ladder, deliver us altered onto the turned earth, blinking.”—Jennifer Sperry Steinorth, author of <i>Her Read</i>

“In her daring, necessary <i>Dear Wallace</i>, poet Julie Choffel insists, ‘what people don’t realize is / form is personal.’ These urgent poems enact the realization that the personal is never settled but needs to be discovered anew, line by line. For Choffel, poetry is not the <i>cry</i> but rather the <i>hope</i> laden in the occasion of our humanity. Her work is what listening sounds like.”—Richard Deming, author of <i>This Exquisite Loneliness</i>