This collection holds a mirror to the self and in its reflection we find the elegiac and the ecological, as in "how much of enjoying a place / is destroying it?"; the worlds both domestic and natural, as in "when the redbird strikes the window, it is me / who takes blame"; a daughter shattered, but not without humor—"I can feel it coming on, my season of lavish suffering, the why me why me why me why me / that leaves me snowblind in the asking"—and, certainly, not without tenderness. Shaped by both concision and unfolding sequences, The Last Unkillable Thing is a journey across landscapes of mourning.