Death and Other Speculative Fictions

Hagood explores the nature of life after death in this unconventional collection of prose poems about grief.

“All I want to do since losing my father is molt in my nest,” the author begins this book, which she later describes as a “séance.” In the book’s first section, “Death as the Ulysses of Desperate Housewives,” she tells of grief manifesting as compulsive Google searches about ghosts, binge-reading about death, and translating foreign recipes, then cooking while listening to audiobooks. She makes a list of talking points “in case I ever get to speak to my father again. You never know,” and contemplates how writing can be a kind of time machine, returning her to when her dad was still alive. The second section, “Death as the Beginning of Dracula,” backtracks to her father’s rapid deterioration from cancer: “He’s unconscious, one cyclopean eye ajar but unseeing, still green but clouded,” she reports. His mortality also prompts contemplation about the author’s mother’s eventual demise, then her own: “What if I were to see death as the most gorgeous part of life? Or, more particularly, as something audacious that exceeds life?” she wonders. In the third section, “Death as Furiosa,” set after her dad’s death, Hagood takes a broader look at the world around her, including wars abroad, neighborhood violence, and online vitriol. Throughout, she incorporates philosophy, literature, pop culture, and SF references—from Cicero and Ray Bradbury to Blade Runnerand the Star Warssaga’s Yoda—into her wide-ranging examinations. As a result, the narrative can feel overly scattered at times, veering from film commentary to parenting anecdotes to the consequences of a viral climate change tweet. Hagood’s observations on the parallels between writing and mourning are particularly astute in lines such as “all writers are mediums, talking daily with the deceased, resurrecting, bringing back ghost truths from the underworld.” Her prose poems are equally creative in their descriptions, such as one of New York City as “a dead cement isle” where “commuters step over people sleeping on the subway platform like they were plastic bags.”

An earnest, if disjointed, reflection on life’s end and its aftermath.