SUTURES

In writing that excites its forms with cultural complexity, Divya Victor challenges what otherwise goes unremarked in the regenerate exceptionalism of US American poetics. In work that pulses with playfulness and sober restraint, the hard facts of immigration and the skills required for global citizenship are ensnared in a global economy of production and consumption in whose underworld the sound of music engenders latent fantasies and fear.
—Roberto Tejada, author of Exposition Park and Mirrors for Gold

The song says and thus this solves the problem identified in the figure below yet then thrusts a whitened rest at threes and sixes. No octave either; this lyric bites its likely chimes. Sung from doe to tea, what song—what la?—is blank like me? Against a cloying nursery-national interpolation and a likewise saccharine belief not so much that the other driver will stop (good Christ, is that irrational!), but rather that someone planned all this for us and, heaven help him, is perhaps still up there in control, these two movements ask and answer. If Sutures at the Picnic gives a set of chords, Brace Position sings them twain, its subjects (natural or other) fractured and refracted to lethal edge. Thus, the lyre’s slice: just after the edge drawn across one’s skin, just before the blood welling into a future stitch. In all, throated as it is from glass and honey, Victor’s Sutures weaves a sharpened silicate resolve.
—Andrew Rippeon