One poem in Jorge Renaud’s new collection, The Restlessness of Bound Wrists, makes the reader question whether the book in their hands would be allowed into Texas prisons—or whether it would be culled by administrators, left “to burn with other / slashed seditionary / lies, all lies, unfit for our rehabilitation.”
Lamentation for Literature (excerpt)
We will not read this book.
It will not whisper its histories
to us. We will not
listen to its secrets,
be seduced
by its sweet mysteries,
compelled to arise
revolt question
accuse desire
confess dream
Love die.
We will not.
read. this. book.
