I read about one book of poetry a year. I enjoy poetry now, despite an adolescence spent being intimidated by it. I am thrilled that Mojave Ghost by Forrest Gander (New Directions) became my poetry book of the year. Structured with page breaks and asterisks but no formal titles, he creates something that flows effortlessly even in its most disjointed moments.
Gander’s author’s note grounds the reader, providing the critical context of the death of his mother and wife. What unfolds after is a story that shines with love despite the weight of its absence. The majority of the work is Gander’s reflection on lost relationships, which is then mirrored by the journey he physically takes through the collection’s coda. The Mojave Desert serves as the backdrop for the broader story of his life.
Mojave Ghost focuses strongest on the loss of Gander’s wife. His memorial to her is framed through a gentle remembrance of their shared history. He frequently returns to the night they first met, painstakingly recreating their first interactions in poems that crop up several times across the course of the novel-poem. In one of the final resurrections of this moment, he achingly notes, “In photographs taken of me before we met / I only see the impending joy in my face.”
His mourning never pollutes these lingering moments, and in doing so becomes one of the truest testaments to grief I have read on page. Gander is able to uphold the pleasure of his relationship, acknowledging the pain but helping the reader understand that the two emotions can paradoxically exist together.
The use of nature within this collection is so intentional and exacting, it brings to mind Annie Dillard, or perhaps some of the more tolerable sections of Thoreau. Nature becomes the vehicle through which Gander hikes the stages of grief. He establishes this precedent within the first poem of the collection. He melds casual natural observation (“She asked quietly if he noticed. / What? How the small moths come out / at dusk, but the big ones – these, she said / casting her eyes into the darkness, / only after midnight”) with scientific descriptions (“It all changes / in the seconds it takes for a parasite / in the saliva of a sand fly / to replicate itself in the gut / and migrate to the fly’s proboscis”). The end result is romantic and repulsive.
One of the most refreshing aspects of this collection is that, despite how much it careens into grief, it never goes so far as to be despairing. Gander shows a strong respect for the human experience and all that includes — especially the darker parts of being a person. In doing so, he presents a collection that shows his grief without ever being overwhelmed by it, a delicate balance that communicates how deeply he loves and how actively he still lives.
Halfway through the novel-poem, Gander remembers a conversation with his wife and notes, “It isn’t through my ears I hear you / I find myself listening with my whole body.” Mojave Ghost is a collection that is read with the whole body, its descriptions and musings so visceral that I felt them in my bones.
This article was originally published in Little Village’s May 2025 issue.
