Jessica Hiemstra offers up “a confession which makes you holy,” taking things apart — her Dutch Reformed upbringing v. the fact of having a body “drunk with wonder” — a reckoning, balancing gentleness with mercy, seeking to claim that rarest of things, communion with the living and the dead. Nothing compares or even comes close to articulating the hallowed human stain that remains. A breathtaking achievement. — Kirby, author of She and Poetry Is Queer
Compassionate and lyrical, Hiemstra’s poems envision a world where “prayer’s the bright darting / of a red-winged blackbird.” They issue us all a caution: learn from past mistakes because “what we don’t return to the earth / our children inherit.” Grounded in natural and animal imagery, Blood Root grapples with Hiemstra’s familial colonial history. Through acknowledging the violence enacted by her Dutch Christian ancestors and her missionary childhood, Hiemstra attempts to reconcile this past with the interconnectedness of peoples and the natural world. — Paola Ferrante, author of What to Wear When Surviving a Lion Attack
A seething little masterpiece. In three long poems flooded with rage and remorse, Hiemstra reckons with a life that spans three continents and a childhood haunted by beautiful woods and killing hands, “a universe housed in every dead body.” Blood Root is a confession, an interrogation, and ultimately an elegy for all the broken birds and drowned kittens of Hiemstra’s earliest years. I love how raw and honest and spare these poems are, how at the heart of this astonishingly forgiving book is a relentless, unshakable compassion for all living things. — Shannon Bramer, author of Precious Energy
Hiemstra’s writing is raw and unflinching as she wrestles with the echoes of colonialism and humanity’s bruising impact on the natural world . . . — The Miramichi Reader
Through the intertwining of memory and loss, Blood Root compels readers to confront the complex truths of our own sense of belonging, leaving us not with answers, but with the vital reminder that we are all irrevocably shaped by the past we carry within us. — Room