A lyrical excavation of trauma and healing in the midst of early motherhood - the debut work of an endlessly inventive poet whose work 'fizzes with energy, physicality, and the levitating openness of song' (Rebecca Tamás) 'An essential read, poignant, powerful and provocative. I love the feeling in Amy Acre's poems' Salena Godden Amy Acre’s debut collection is an unforgettable, unflinching excavation of motherhood, what it means to be a female artist, and what it means to be a poet with a deeply integrated community. This is a timeless work the like of which we haven’t seen enough of in the past, primed to last long into the future. 'Amy Acre is one of the best poets of her generation. Pure cinema, raw heart, and unparalleled technique. Read this' Joelle Taylor, winner of the 2021 T S Eliot Prize for Poetry 'Mothers, daughters, lovers, all the thrilling complexity of love and grief that the body must bear; these are poems which set the page aglow and make my heart spin' Liz Berry, winner of the 2018 Forward Prize for Poetry

In Where We're Going, We Don't Need Roads, aliens and time machines, Lambrusco and apocalyptic first kisses, broken relationships and breast-shaped mountains are perfect companions for a delicate dance through Hill Valley, Wagamama and potato fields in Nepal. The language, open-hearted and burlesque, is lifted from hypnotherapy podcasts, ad agency jargon, the fine distillate of the worst things we think about ourselves. These are poems alive with tingling histamines and humming generators. They slip between lines of conversation, sneak into your bedroom at night, haunt your dreams.