Maksymchuk’s words accrue a mountain of humanity in the ends of inhumanity. Ascend it; peer over language’s walls. Can her poetics actually cross them all?

The haunting is never settled. It moves in every direction, changing shape, folding inwards, transforming the living as it does the dead. All of us: diaspora of the ___.

This makes of poetry—true poetry—either a task that is more difficult even than sainthood, or else simply a fool’s errand altogether. There is a dignity specific to either option.