As a writer myself, there are times when I read another writer's prose and feel sick with jealousy that mine will never be that good. Then there are the times when the prose is just so good jealousy doesn't even come into it, and I'm simply basking in the words and how beautiful they are. This is one of those times. Don't get me wrong - Rankine's poems do not tackle easy subjects. They are confronting and depressing and infuriating. The constant barrage of rude, racist encounters she has experienced are enormously dispiriting; in fact they are shameful. But these poems are so well-crafted, and so sculptured - not an easy thing to do in prose poem form, as these poems are - that her engagement with this very present, very difficult subject matter slides right into brain like a knife through butter and bursts there.

It's very, very good.