Bear witness to a world reshaped by trauma, disfigured by grief, and strangely illuminated by the grotesque poetry of survival.

Told in raw, unflinching verse and framed by a chilling interview-style prologue, these poems don’t seek resolution or redemption. Instead, they offer something rarer: truth without anesthesia. Hood’s language is evocative and uncompromising, at times surreal, at times starkly literal, always purposeful. Whether imagining a ferryman ferrying infants into fog or cataloging the dismantling of his own senses, Hood never shies from the horror that shaped him—or from the beauty he still aches to protect.

This is not a book for the faint of heart. It is for those brave enough to stand at the edge of unspeakable loss and listen. Because somewhere inside the carnage, there is still a heartbeat.

Not far from here, there have been sightings of a strange silhouette roaming the night using a jar of lightning bugs as a lantern. These sightings suggest that he paces back and forth, and only stops when he finds a fallen animal at his feet. On this occasion, this man can be seen kneeling down and reciting a eulogy for the roadkill before beginning to pace again. There are rumors that this odd fellow is none other than Alec B. Hood, the author of this collection. However, the only firsthand account of this man’s face offers a chilling revelation; that this man has no face at all. The eyewitness describes a skull with scattered freckles in the place of skin and a smile. If this account is to be believed, then it is entirely possible that this could not be Mr. Hood; and as a result, this small story is completely irrelevant.