Glass focuses on two events: the death of a close friend of the narrator’s in an accident in Mexico, and a mysterious illness that left her unable to walk for much of the next year. From there the book roams outwards and inwards, over memories from other times (Mexico City, and various locations in the state of Jalisco, Mexico, the poet’s previous home—as well as Brisbane, where she returns for medical treatment).
When I read Rose Hunter’s poetry I am immersed in the flow of her music, as if the conscious world is an intensely coloured envelope of experience: wonder mixed with something dark and unpredictable. Anyone who can say ‘a cantaloupe is the fruit equivalent of a lobster’ has my full attention.
Rose Hunter’s poems decentre the speaking subject, shifting position from the absurd to the oneiric, from the colourful streets of Mexico to Brisbane. Part-diary, part-confession, glass is a delicate and resilient collection, a hybrid language answering poetry’s questions of memory and desire.
Publication date: November 2017