"In his debut collection Rushi Vyas asks, what is left of the family, of the self, of the heart, after a father’s suicide? The hauntings of this tragedy ripple throughout this deftly constructed collection and show how this trauma lives in the body, where the reaching for the pulse is multidirectional, opening up the possibilities of how we live inside one another. These poems are an antidote to the notion of log kya kahenge? What will people say? that keeps families spiraling in their own cycles of grief instead of tearing down the load bearing beams of the house of sadness. Vyas shows us in gem-cut lines and poetic turns, how poetry fills that space of grieving and transforms these etching-like traumas into memories for examination. As you read, pay close attention to sound and sense and the intimacies to learn how hold your fragile selves. This is a guidebook for survival: how to endure when violence attempts to swallow you whole. These are poems I now keep on my prayer shelf."
—Rajiv Mohabir

"Rushi Vyas’s staggering first collection is an effigy formed by that brightness we know will supplant the day’s dark whether we see it happen or not. This lyric is simultaneously interrogation, mourning, joy. The speaker in these poems searches for direction, some impetus that might occupy the mind against dreams in a layered and multivocal testament to the gravity of witness, to the perpetual happening of a moment that reverberates so profoundly it cannot end, a temporal ripple that, steeped in a sonic resonance where syllables are not yet words or a body mostly nothing … air & bone lined with skin, anchors us to the intersection where I meets Thou meets We. I’m thrilled to be invited into these poems where snow stifles / the certain world and the season of unknowing feels most like an emancipation gifted within this ‘verse, within these ‘verses."
—Ruth Ellen Kocher

“In this unflinching debut, Rushi Vyas intricately untangles personal and familial memories as a lyrical mode of mourning. ‘I waited all my life for my father to die,’ Vyas writes in the opening poem, and we witness the aftermath of a paternal suicide which left shockwaves in its wake. There is no bracing for the impact of a self- inflicted violence that ends a history of domestic violence. Relief, dread, and radical compassion lace these unforgettable accounts. At times fierce and tender, these poems reveal how anti-elegy is essential to the elegiac form.”
—Diana Khoi Nguyen