
Book Review: Parallax by Julia Kolchinsky

Reviewer: Jace DeAngelo
Parallax by Julia Kolchinsky is a difficult read. This poetry anthology is gorgeously written, but the topics are hard, albeit necessary, to swallow. Kolchinsky’s anthology is an unflinching dose of reality in a world where decades-long atrocities receive only a brief moment of our divided attention. Despite the harshness of these realities, Kolchinsky’s love and hopes for her children shine through; these moments of motherly devotion are glimmers of hope amid tragedy.
The very first poem is a preface for all that follows. Its ending line, “The world is cruel to most, just look:,” is both a warning and a plea to pay close attention to the poems that come after. The collection is wrought with themes of war, abuse, poverty, bigotry, motherhood, and neurodivergence, which Kolchinsky seamlessly weaves through the lens of her everyday life. The cruelty of the world is a malignancy lingering at the edge of normality, seeping into and staining the author's interactions throughout.
The poems are primarily free-form; however, there is a haiku-like tendency to end each piece with an epiphany established early on. In the second poem, the ending lines brought me close to tears: “he reaches, not for god// but for whatever language/ is closest to Mama.” The intensity never lets up; each poem, although complete on its own, functions as a cog in a larger machine of disillusionment.
The themes tangle past and present; “This mouthful of history// we chew and chew until it chokes us” from the poem Watching Masha i Medved as Russia Invades Ukraine and “Present turned/ strange past even our parents/ couldn’t have imagined” from Dear Fellow Ukrainian Poet-Mama encapsulate this recurring entanglement perfectly. The violence perpetuated against her and her family is a totality, an inescapable reality she tries to shield her children from. Kolchinsky sometimes refers to her children as a unit; other times, she focuses on her neurodivergent son, detailing the unique difficulties he faces while showcasing her fear that he might internalize and maintain the misogynistic cycles of abuse. She loves her children and fears the brutality they may be capable of. Further, she fears for them if she cannot be their shield.
Using a variety of poetic styles and formatting and enjambment alongside elegant, casual, cutting language, Kolchinsky makes the reality of the ongoing war between Ukraine and Russia an urgent reality for even the distant reader. Kolchinsky begs the reader to confront these uncomfortable topics and immerse themselves in the pain of her reality. In "Two Years Later," Kolchinsky admits: “The last thing I want is another poem/ about war and dead children and how/ we’ve forgotten their names.” This book fueled my desire to live in a world without war, where such anthologies are not required. This anthology aligns with Edward Burke's definition of the sublime, with its overwhelming beauty in the throes of terror.
My favorite lines:
“He wants simple math./ Breath that outlasts/ violence.” –I do not mention the war to my six-year-old son but somehow his body knows.
“the worm moon & all the earthworms/ she drags out like the one on my mother’s front step/ held more gentle than breath in my son’s palm/ as he begged to bring it inside to keep & love// to hold this way forever [...]” –Why write another poem about the moon
“How love can sound like what it devours” –Omen
“if firefly is closer to the truth & flame, like fall, is also flight?” –Am I a bad mother:
“the way ‘dead’/ fits in his mouth/ like a punchline.” –What does the vulture say to the snowman(?) or how my son is learning to tell jokes(.)
“Remember,/ anything born seed/ has within itself the hope/ to flower [...]” –Dear Sol’nishko, Little Sun
If you're looking for emotive, authentic poetry, I recommend Parallax.
Parallax by Julia Kolchinsky is now available from The University of Arkansas Press.
Jace DeAngelo is an editor of fiction and poetry. They have a Bachelor’s in Creative Writing and a certificate in Editing and Publishing.