Amy Small-McKinney
& You Think It Ends
Glass Lyre Press
Reviewer: Brian Fanelli
Though it’s likely Amy Small-McKinney wrote the poems that compose & You Think It Ends before the second Trump administration, her latest work feels particularly relevant, as well as defiant, given the constant onslaught of grim headlines. The collection addresses gun violence, abortion access, Jewish heritage, national and personal identity, and the aging process. While her new book tackles political and social issues, it never feels preachy because the poet frequently places more personal narratives at the center.
The first section, “What else to do this time,” contains poems about a woman’s right to choose. I assume that many of the pieces were written following the Supreme Court’s Decision in 2022 to overturn Roe v. Wade, which upheld legalized abortion access in all fifty states. Since then, we’ve seen draconian abortion bans sweep nearly half the states. There’s a palpable and justifiable anger in this section, especially because Small-McKinney merges the personal with the headlines. She recounts stories of sexual violence. For instance, the first two stanzas in “This Is What I Remember” read:
His rage swaggering down a street/ leaping onto my body / a shredded blouse / almost shirtless & hailing a cab / ashamed to be walking down Broad in only a bra / this was the second time.
The first:
The leader told them: I will show you how to do it.
Into the entryway they followed / a neighbor opened and closed her door / did nothing even when the men lay on top / even when everything was being stolen: sky door purse joy / a woman on a bike stopped them.
There’s also a slight refrain that exists in the poem about the inability to read the newspaper, when the speaker admits, “I cannot open a newspaper. I cannot / and I do / because without knowing who would I become?” Then, a few lines later, she says, “I cannot read a newspaper: I do,” before addressing a photo of a woman with a scarred face, “burned to hide beauty,” before fleeing her county and the men who raped her.
Small-McKinney’s poems are raw but speak powerful truths about female agency on many levels. The first section contains international, domestic, and personal stories. She forcefully addresses trauma and violence. Yes, some of the narratives may be hard to confront, but her work feels distinctly necessary, right now especially.
In another poem, “Here,” the speaker depicts the country before Roe. The imagery is stark, vivid, and quite harrowing. It also begins with an epigraph from Our Bodies Ourselves for the New Century, a book about women’s health. “Here” reads:
How to describe fear as tracks in fresh snow
or as dogs let loose from a yard—
I did not know what else to do in this time.
A body remembers stiff white sheets,
a long metal rod that tore into that small
red shell of herself her lips repeating
something no one could hear.
Torn paper written in bleach.
A young girl as torn paper.
The non-creature ripped out of her.
Mercy a droplet, then swiped into air.
The word choices in the piece, especially “torn” and “ripped,” make the experience visceral for the reader. This is compounded by the rich sensory detail, such as the “stiff white sheets” and the “long metal rod.” There’s also something cold and clinical about the poem, again going back to the word choices. The young girl has no name. She’s simply “a young girl.” What’s aborted is simply “the non-creature.”
This piece contrasts with some of the more personal narratives that Small-McKinney offers. “Abortion, 1970/ 2022” jumps back and forth between the past and present. It opens with the speaker mentioning that her daughter texted, stating she will escort women to the clinic. The poem then shifts to the past, as the speaker recounts a rape and her own need to have an abortion. Yet, out of this stunning narrative come the lines, “When my daughter tells me she will escort women to safety, / she holds my heart, this girl, this woman, who we both are, have become.” The concluding lines are notably cogent: “This body. My daughter’s body. How she came out of me. / How we were heard. It was time.”
The rest of the collection addresses COVID, caring for an ailing spouse, aging, and finding comfort in one’s own body, as well as new love. Though the collection begins with these heart-wrenching poems about abortion access and trauma caused by sexual violence, the book concludes with the overarching speaker making peace with her past and with her own body.
In “As to me I know nothing else but miracles,” which is a Walt Whitman quote, the speaker celebrates new love, referred to as a miracle, just as the aging process in the poem is referred to as a miracle. There’s even something beautiful in the poem’s statement, “We are old and in love,” for all its simplicity. Poems like this, which fall in the collection’s last section, are a great counterweight to the earlier sections and quite a high note to end on. In the book’s final poem, “This Aging Body,” the writer reminds us that we’ll all be gone one day. The poem begins,
My body a footprint
partially erased
will step out one day
not return
become mud after storm
its dark moist mouth
its lovely grammar of acceptance.
Yet, until then, there’s living to do, and by the last page, the speaker has accepted herself and her past, including the more traumatic events.
Small-McKinney’s & You Think It Ends dives into the personal. The author addresses her Jewish heritage, past traumas, and the profound loss of a loved one, but also the body, natural world, and new love. Right now, no matter how bad things are, her work reminds us about endurance and finding joy. This collection resonates, and we can all do with the dose of optimism found in the book’s last section especially.
