Anna Laura Reeve. Reaching the Shore of the Sea of Fertility. Belle Point Press, 2023. Reviewed by Zoë Hester, Mar. 3, 2023.
Anna Laura Reeve’s Reaching the Shore of the Sea of Fertility explores the brutal but beautiful range of our existence, from the floral beauty of an Appalachian spring to the honest reality of postpartum depression. Reeve captures the small and real moments of motherhood while also writing of mountain balds and pandemics. She writes of miscarriage and infertility, but also pens a love poem to growing garlic. She “who became a mother” (p. 86) invites us to read of chickadees, of climbing pines, of chasing sunsets. Of mountains and daffodils and falling leaves, of loss and living. A stunning and important debut collection of poems that sings the complexities of life and its continuation in Appalachia, Reaching the Shore of the Sea of Fertility is a book that I’m excited to add to my shelves this year.
Themes of learning how to live postpartum stretch throughout the collection. In a society that has just begun to really participate in discourse about pregnancy, birth, and adjusting to life with children, Reeve brings necessary and important discussions on reproduction to our attention. In “The Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale,” which opens the collection, the speaker brilliantly responds to the ten ranked prompts used in the EPDS to probe for signs of postpartum depression. In this series, the speaker juxtaposes what doctors and visitors tell new mothers with the reality of learning to live with an infant while your body is recovering from the major medical procedure that is birth. The speaker is brutally honest in describing the parts of birth that we don’t talk about:
and fingers—blocky man’s fingers—swept me,
like when you empty your bag into the trash,
scooping, shaking, I was
body flexed tight as a bowstring, teeth crushed together
for how long how long, then chattering
and very cold (p. 3).
These are the moments that we do not hear about when parents share their stories of childbirth, but these are the experiences that should be shared so that pregnant people are prepared for the reality of reproduction and we as a society are prepared to best help those in recovery from birth.
The speaker in “The Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale” makes certain we know that the struggle is not over after the baby arrives; recovery from giving birth is no quick, easy thing: “my own body sewn back together with steel / or plastic, still bleeding” (p. 5-6). Yet, even so, the midwives tell the speaker “You’ll want to be home” (p. 5). In fact, the speaker conveys a multitude of ironies that pervade her new state of motherhood. The speaker sees a sign in the birth center that informs her “Sleep deprivation has been linked to PPD! / Make sure you’re sleeping!” but also follows doctor’s orders to breast feed every two hours, losing her own body for the sake of meeting expectations for her new child. The speaker’s voice is clear in its expressions of the complexity of new motherhood.
In its second half, Reeve’s collection turns to themes of motherhood years post-birth, reminding us that life progresses. Despite it becoming a constant of the speaker’s existence, motherhood still creates challenges for her years after the birth of her daughter. In “Sleep Deprivation,” the speaker tells us that,
Motherhood is putting a sock in it.
Putting a sock on it.
Motherhood is The Great Sock Hunt (p. 57).
Motherhood is consuming; it creates a being that is dependent upon you. It brings you laughter; it makes you mad. The reality of being a parent is something that we should be learning about and having conversations about (and reading poems about). Just like her poems on birth and postpartum life, Reeve’s words on motherhood offer important discourse about being a parent.
In addition to writing of pregnancy, birth, and motherhood, Reeve writes of Appalachia, her love for the mountains and their biodiversity singing throughout the collection. In “First Sugar Moon of the Pandemic,” the speaker paints a picture of spring that reminds the reader of nature’s authority, but also of the harmful nature of mankind. In “Tennessee Red Cob,” the speaker’s awe for corn, along with its history and diversity of use, pulls readers into a field of maíz. In “Vegetable X,” which is perhaps my favorite poem in Reaching the Shore of the Sea of Fertility, Reeve pens a delicious love poem to garlic, celebrating the plants that grow in Appalachia. The speaker’s want for the bulbous allium simmers: “Garlic delicious slut” (p. 39). Never has a poem made me want to dig in a garden, eat garlic bread, and contemplate lust and love in the way that this one does. Garlic and corn, paw-paw and honeysuckle, red-tailed hawks and chickadees—the rich flora and fauna of the Blue Ridge weave through the collection as chickweed weaves across the ground.
Reaching the Shore of the Sea of Fertility is a collection that takes readers on a journey that we claim to know—a journey into and through motherhood and through the hills of Appalachia. Reeve’s poems remind us that there is so much along this journey that we do not fully understand and do not talk about. Reeve’s speaker celebrates the beauty of the natural world and our existence, and she also brings light to the parts of our lives that are laborious. We live complex lives in a wondrously complex world, and Reeve’s collection reminds us of this:
Nevertheless. Here
is my tired and beautiful skin,
my body full of knowledge,
on a ridge overlooking the spine of an ancient range.
Yonder are my mountains—unshorn, wise, free.
I am weightless, pale and freckled above the pines
as buds burst and leaflets
sharpen and cleave (p. 85-86).
Anna Laura Reeve’s Reaching the Shore of the Sea of Fertility explores the brutal but beautiful range of our existence, from the floral beauty of an Appalachian spring to the honest reality of postpartum depression. Reeve captures the small and real moments of motherhood while also writing of mountain balds and pandemics. She writes of miscarriage and infertility, but also pens a love poem to growing garlic. She “who became a mother” (p. 86) invites us to read of chickadees, of climbing pines, of chasing sunsets. Of mountains and daffodils and falling leaves, of loss and living. A stunning and important debut collection of poems that sings the complexities of life and its continuation in Appalachia, Reaching the Shore of the Sea of Fertility is a book that I’m excited to add to my shelves this year.
Themes of learning how to live postpartum stretch throughout the collection. In a society that has just begun to really participate in discourse about pregnancy, birth, and adjusting to life with children, Reeve brings necessary and important discussions on reproduction to our attention. In “The Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale,” which opens the collection, the speaker brilliantly responds to the ten ranked prompts used in the EPDS to probe for signs of postpartum depression. In this series, the speaker juxtaposes what doctors and visitors tell new mothers with the reality of learning to live with an infant while your body is recovering from the major medical procedure that is birth. The speaker is brutally honest in describing the parts of birth that we don’t talk about:
and fingers—blocky man’s fingers—swept me,
like when you empty your bag into the trash,
scooping, shaking, I was
body flexed tight as a bowstring, teeth crushed together
for how long how long, then chattering
and very cold (p. 3).
These are the moments that we do not hear about when parents share their stories of childbirth, but these are the experiences that should be shared so that pregnant people are prepared for the reality of reproduction and we as a society are prepared to best help those in recovery from birth.
The speaker in “The Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale” makes certain we know that the struggle is not over after the baby arrives; recovery from giving birth is no quick, easy thing: “my own body sewn back together with steel / or plastic, still bleeding” (p. 5-6). Yet, even so, the midwives tell the speaker “You’ll want to be home” (p. 5). In fact, the speaker conveys a multitude of ironies that pervade her new state of motherhood. The speaker sees a sign in the birth center that informs her “Sleep deprivation has been linked to PPD! / Make sure you’re sleeping!” but also follows doctor’s orders to breast feed every two hours, losing her own body for the sake of meeting expectations for her new child. The speaker’s voice is clear in its expressions of the complexity of new motherhood.
In its second half, Reeve’s collection turns to themes of motherhood years post-birth, reminding us that life progresses. Despite it becoming a constant of the speaker’s existence, motherhood still creates challenges for her years after the birth of her daughter. In “Sleep Deprivation,” the speaker tells us that,
Motherhood is putting a sock in it.
Putting a sock on it.
Motherhood is The Great Sock Hunt (p. 57).
Motherhood is consuming; it creates a being that is dependent upon you. It brings you laughter; it makes you mad. The reality of being a parent is something that we should be learning about and having conversations about (and reading poems about). Just like her poems on birth and postpartum life, Reeve’s words on motherhood offer important discourse about being a parent.
In addition to writing of pregnancy, birth, and motherhood, Reeve writes of Appalachia, her love for the mountains and their biodiversity singing throughout the collection. In “First Sugar Moon of the Pandemic,” the speaker paints a picture of spring that reminds the reader of nature’s authority, but also of the harmful nature of mankind. In “Tennessee Red Cob,” the speaker’s awe for corn, along with its history and diversity of use, pulls readers into a field of maíz. In “Vegetable X,” which is perhaps my favorite poem in Reaching the Shore of the Sea of Fertility, Reeve pens a delicious love poem to garlic, celebrating the plants that grow in Appalachia. The speaker’s want for the bulbous allium simmers: “Garlic delicious slut” (p. 39). Never has a poem made me want to dig in a garden, eat garlic bread, and contemplate lust and love in the way that this one does. Garlic and corn, paw-paw and honeysuckle, red-tailed hawks and chickadees—the rich flora and fauna of the Blue Ridge weave through the collection as chickweed weaves across the ground.
Reaching the Shore of the Sea of Fertility is a collection that takes readers on a journey that we claim to know—a journey into and through motherhood and through the hills of Appalachia. Reeve’s poems remind us that there is so much along this journey that we do not fully understand and do not talk about. Reeve’s speaker celebrates the beauty of the natural world and our existence, and she also brings light to the parts of our lives that are laborious. We live complex lives in a wondrously complex world, and Reeve’s collection reminds us of this:
Nevertheless. Here
is my tired and beautiful skin,
my body full of knowledge,
on a ridge overlooking the spine of an ancient range.
Yonder are my mountains—unshorn, wise, free.
I am weightless, pale and freckled above the pines
as buds burst and leaflets
sharpen and cleave (p. 85-86).