Books by Amy Acre

Amy Acre's second pamphlet reaches both arms out to the wild of being woman, the blood of being mother, the tragedy of being human. From deep within the dark of these poems, there is resolve; there is love; there is light.

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.