forthcoming april 2022
“…A quiet-yet-fierce rebirth of the wounded spirit.”
–James Crews, Poet and Editor of The Path of Kindness
“…Exquisitely delicate and lyrical. Her magnum opus.”
–Caitlin Garvey, author of The Mourning Report
–Will Falk, author of How Dams Fall
A POETIC MEMOIR ON TAMING, RECLAIMING & BECOMING WILD
FEATURING NEARLY 100 ORIGINAL BLACK AND WHITE PHOTOS FROM THE ROAD.
Following the release of her micro-memoir, To Lose the Madness, and the TEDx Talk at Yale University based on her life, Browning returns from a six-year poetic silence with, Drive through the Night. Raw, gritty, lonesome, and stunningly authentic—we pick up Browning’s trail at mid-life as the poet reflects on her journey through her major relationships, both with lovers and self. The map of these poems traces the poet’s journey of overcoming and re-becoming while simultaneously set against the iconic backdrop of the American Southwest. In Drive Through the Night, we follow the trail of an orphan-turned-vagabond who left behind the white picket fence for the open range and open road.
sElEctions from the COlleCtion
8,947 miles later, I know now why you refuse the say the names of those dead-to-you-yet-still-breathing—afraid as you are of the monsters are still under the bed—yet in the silence, you give them immortality…
Ride this life hard
we might outrun the sun
and not see the sight awaiting
in the bare daylight
I hear the voice of god in the hum of the neon sign at the rest stop, where the caravan of displaced desperadoes and expats post-up for the bottomless cup of coffee….
Be gentle long night, I don’t belong here. Thrown to the wolves, I shifted nocturnal.
In a land beyond the pervading dark,
in a state beyond the fever-pitch…
Out beyond the murkiness left by anger-tinted arguments, remember what you know in your heart and bring that truth close.
Red dust, sanguine from Sangre bleeding into the snowy roads that lead to the hidden mountain …
They say poetry must tell us something of life and the wider-world, else it is confessional blather beyond use, but what if I want it to be only for me—in all its obscurity?
What are we to do, we who require silence in a world of deafening din? The far-lung corners being as far as they are, where shall we carry ourselves?
The perfect, plumb ground too easy and expected bears no liking for those beings without wings but for whom heights hold draw.
Gathering dust in the mantle spun particles of God in chain formed the milky way.
A black-hat specter of ill fate
emerged while back turned taking the children I was to have, the life I was to lead, the person I was known to be . . .
There will come a day when I succumb to the roaming, rambling, road . . .