The ultimate subject of Maya Catherine's stunning debut collection is violence. American Faith begins with its manifestation in our country: a destructive administration, a history of cruelty and extermination, and a love of firearms. "He owns a gun farm in Florida/they grow in swamps like chestnuts." The poet introduces a suite of poems that precisely imagines the consequences, a series of "cancellations"—of government, bees, the color wheel, the return to nature, and the end of the world. The violence naturally extends to the personal. The speaker's Romanian grandfather keeps wild dogs in case a man tries to steal his daughters. A godmother is psychologically erased by her tempestuous husband, who is nevertheless generous to flowers. "It's what happened inside her/that slouched." And what for some is routine can feel like an assault: a TSA agent wipes down a bra tucked in a traveler's suitcase, adding, "prettiest terrorist I've seen all day." Tentatively, the title poem casts light on the unexplored future, a solution that includes faith: "...the days, impatient, fresh beasts, appeal to me—You are here. You must believe in something."