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Intimacies, Received

Intimacies, Received

by Taneum Bambrick


Available for Pre-Order. This item will be available on September 27, 2022


Intimacies, Received signals agency, as trauma is held to the light and finally named.

In this astonishing second collection by Taneum Bambrick, violence hides in the glint of the carving knife—every intimacy a shadow, every memory a maze to navigate. Set primarily in rural Southern Spain, Intimacies, Received moves through streets and fields, households and years, following a survivor of sexual assault as she painstakingly reassembles a narrative of self. A brilliant storyteller, Bambrick builds through palimpsest—layering vivid imagery to recall embodiment and dissociation, illness and isolation, queer female sexuality amidst acts of misogyny—utilizing varied forms including ekphrasis, persona, and a lyric essay. Ultimately, Intimacies, Received signals agency, as trauma is held to the light and finally named.

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781556596315
Publisher: Copper Canyon Press
Publication date: 09/27/2022
Pages: 80
Product dimensions: 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.00(d)

About the Author

Taneum Bambrick is the author of Intimacies, Received (Copper Canyon Press, 2022) and Vantage, which was selected by Sharon Olds for the APR / Honickman First Book Award (American Poetry Review, 2019). Her chapbook, Reservoir, was selected by Ocean Vuong for the 2017 Yemassee Chapbook Prize. She is the winner of an Academy of American Poets University Prize, an Environmental Writing Fellowship from the Vermont Studio Arts Center, and the 2018 BOOTH Nonfiction Contest. She was a 2020 Stegner Fellow at Stanford University, and has received scholarships from the Sewanee Writers’ Conference and the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference. She is the Reviews Editor at Pleiades Magazine and a Dornsife Fellow in Creative Writing and Literature in the PhD program at USC.

Read an Excerpt

On the Nightstand, a Bowl of Fabric Roses

Behind our apartment an old river

and, behind that, a field of hived bees.

From bed, a horse we could watch—freckled gray—

walking the circle permitted by a long leash.

Each morning a farmer came, hammering

the metal stake she was roped to a few feet over.

We were having sex when you asked if we could get married.

Because I waited to say yes, you stopped moving.

Saying I Am a Survivor in Another Language

We are in the moment before we decide,

for the first time, to have sex.

We fill our mouths with salami and wine.

I am careful, peeling wax paper off glazed sponge cake

baked by nuns who live down the street.

One nun, this morning, took my hand in hers

while she told me that the most important ingredient

is the silence of prayer.

I cannot tell you this, but I held on to her

while she walked me through a village

made of thick paper. A train with a real light

and human figurines hot-glued to look

like they were heading somewhere.

I was terrified. I didn’t touch a man for seven years.

Asleep. Your eyelashes open against my chest.

You are the first person to not know this.

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