Here’s an excerpt from Natanya Ann Pulley’s review:

In order to keep the tension in a filthy workshop such as this, Joyce’s prose is deceptively easy. The clean starts of the sentences seem ordinary. One sentence begins, “Threads of red hair,” and another starts, “She tanned her small breasts.” But each, like so many others, fall into an action or image that snags this steady line back into a complication: “Threads of red hair loop you shut,” or, “She tanned her small breasts, ironed flat, like all of ours, from birth.” We begin in one world: “You can lie on their soft, brown pelts,” and end in another: “and make generic love.” Other lines do not allow that safe admission: “There is time that is blank. You are on her and you are guilty.” But these lines always build up to a contorted image, a knot of violations: “She slammed outwards, y-shaped, our mermaid openings began to empty of scales.” In the end, what we can find of hope is only caught up in a strange type of comfort—one that builds and reinforces a system of defeated relief and ghastly transformation. The language assures us that despite the steady piles of flesh and loss, we will never know what we are becoming.

Read the rest HERE.

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