"Christie's audacious writing pulses with life and, yes, movement." -- Globe and Mail
In Evie Christie's third book mothers nurse babies as the world comes to an end, fathers hustle or drift, the pastoral and the present collide, violence, love, and death gently fill the space and time they have been given. As surreal as they are domestic, Christie's poems navigate the world they are in, struggle with history, the immediate, and what Richard Polt's investigation of Heidegger would describe as "the emergency being."

Mid-Late 2000's Parkette
We sat on a bench.
A flock of gulls intruded
On our silence.
I was one month into the affair that would take me through two difficult
pregnancies. You weren't leaving or joining anyone
you said.
That wasn't what I meant, I said,
whether it was or wasn't
I can't remember now.
We drank coffee from Rabba.
The winter was hard. You wrote from Montreal,
You forgot to write from Berlin, sent a pic from Montauk.
The next time I see you it's winter again.
You put the baby in the stroller while I get dressed. We walk
Along St Mary and stand under some stone
arch or another. University girls laugh. The baby sleeps.
You get a text from your girlfriend. Neither of us has heard
from our fathers in a while.
This is an approximation. I don't remember details.
Only that the city has changed, the baby is bigger.
The winters are still hard on everyone.