In My Arms

Trespass across the human landscape of Setareh Ebrahimi’s world.

You’ll find yourself a willing voyeur of stolen moments between the intrepid and humanely flawed figures who populate her poems: mothers, lovers, lost siblings, corrupted angels, nurses and ghosts. Leave your faint heart at home: these poems are set in extremes, either frozen or desert-hot. They dance and skip to a musicality that seems to come from the land, from the skin.

Ebrahimi’s is an assured voice, both soft and hard, ruthless and seductive. Line by line, she layers imagery as if pouring a glass of water to the brim: full enough to satisfy great thirst, without spilling over.