"In Bowen's work, there is hazard to the homestead. Her poems reel you in with a southerner's hospitality, but as soon as you feel safe, the floorboards start caving in. Both devotional and dangerous, these poems are "prone to strange weather." The work induces fever; yet, her poems don't stop at disease and disappointment--they mark an argument through death so that we may also experience release, sustenance, and restitution. These poems are dark jars lit by phosphorescent moths."--Simone Muench