This book explodes into your psyche. Wytovich takes her readers by storm, pulling them into a maelstrom of emotion and language and sensation. “My name is werewolf, death-cup, noise,” she screams charging through hordes of grinning demons.
Ghost girls watch from garden shadows as you daintily sip poisoned tea; we dine with witches on thornapple, mushrooms, wild strawberries, and boiled spiders. “Three times I came to tea,” the mystical triad, three wishes, click your heels three times, and you too can read the omens. Wytovich illustrates with words, creating fantastical paintings: “She stood inside the four corners / securely in sunlight–smiling / a fairy princess against / my unwelcoming face / precious, with a quiet respect.”
Wytovich’s writing brings to mind the work of Charlotte Perkins Gilman and Mary Oliver, but her voice is uniquely, angrily, her own. She questions suffering and disturbance and gives us an illusion of genteel femininity shielding ferocious womanhood. Yet there is beauty glowing behind her ferocity: “Awakened, a trailing mist / hugs my morning tea / an early love, shining.”
in “On the Subject of Blackberries” Stephanie Wytovich has created a universe of thought. You cannot read her writing and be unaffected. It forces you to consider what is real and what we are told is false, though only the reader knows for sure.