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Sons of Achilles
Sons of Achilles questions what it means to be in and of a linage of violence. In this collection, Nabila Lovelace attempts to examine the liminal space between violence and intimacy. From the mythical characters that depict and pass down a progeny of violence through their canonization, to the witnessing of violence, Lovelace interrogates the ways violence enters and inhabits a life.
80 pages, Paperback
First published June 15, 2018
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Displaying 1 - 18 of 18 reviews
August 19, 2025
Sealey Challenge 2025: 17/31
I really enjoyed this collection and the way it explores violence in its many forms through powerful re-imaginings of Greek myths. Maybe I'm just in my Greek mythology era, but what stood out is that this collection isn't only a mythological retelling; it’s also a profound re-examination of African American history and the enduring legacies of racism, trauma, and systemic violence.
There's a remarkable depth to this work. Lovelace doesn’t shy away from difficult truths, but rather she pulls the reader down with her into complex, often painful territory. The language is richly layered and intentional, demanding that you sit with the words, reflect, and sometimes even confront gaps in your own understanding.
This isn’t a collection that offers easy answers, but that’s part of its power. It challenged me, moved me, and made me think more critically - and not just about mythology, but about the real modern histories and lived experiences that echo through it.
I really enjoyed this collection and the way it explores violence in its many forms through powerful re-imaginings of Greek myths. Maybe I'm just in my Greek mythology era, but what stood out is that this collection isn't only a mythological retelling; it’s also a profound re-examination of African American history and the enduring legacies of racism, trauma, and systemic violence.
There's a remarkable depth to this work. Lovelace doesn’t shy away from difficult truths, but rather she pulls the reader down with her into complex, often painful territory. The language is richly layered and intentional, demanding that you sit with the words, reflect, and sometimes even confront gaps in your own understanding.
This isn’t a collection that offers easy answers, but that’s part of its power. It challenged me, moved me, and made me think more critically - and not just about mythology, but about the real modern histories and lived experiences that echo through it.
June 18, 2018
Had the pleasure of meeting the author during the annual Mission Creek Festival here in Iowa City. After hearing her recite selections from Sons of Achilles, I had to purchase the collection. My faves: Citizenship, After the Funeral, Exorcism, and When Your Vice is a Man. Powerful work by a powerful sister! Support indie presses and cop this collection!
March 27, 2020
So pleased Jen on booktube recommended this as it was incredible
March 22, 2018
gorgeous, raw, and haunting. I took pictures of some of the poems so I could read them again and again
January 23, 2021
When I began reading this book of poetry, I found myself unable to get into it. So I put it down for a day or two. When I came back to it, I read each poem out loud in the confines of my basement and sat back after each reading to stare at the fire. This meant reading this book took longer, but each poem was felt and that was right.
Poems that stuck out to me, Veterans Memorial Drive, Hourglass, For The Days That Are Today (especially that last one)
Poems that stuck out to me, Veterans Memorial Drive, Hourglass, For The Days That Are Today (especially that last one)
April 4, 2018
Just a total force. What an exemplary illustration of what contemporary poetry can be. A must read, and a must read again, and again.
April 15, 2018
Poetry.
Amazing collection. Some favorites: "Veterans Memorial Drive," "After the Funeral," "Ugly," "Ruff Ryders Anthem," "Roll Tide," and "Finally, Weep Freely."
Amazing collection. Some favorites: "Veterans Memorial Drive," "After the Funeral," "Ugly," "Ruff Ryders Anthem," "Roll Tide," and "Finally, Weep Freely."
June 18, 2019
Brilliant.
October 7, 2020
From "Roy Wilkins Recreational Center" (in Queens)
The boys play "Ignition," & the girls dance
the only way 2003 allows-the bottom half
of my cornrows slapping my back. The thick braid
reminding me of what is mine & what is added.
Long hair because Alicia Keys has long hair
& I think she is the most beautiful girl &
I kissed her CD once before I fell asleep but right now
we are dancing & dancing to the words of Robert
who croons a deep thrum into the Rec center. The boys
are grabbing hands of the prettiest girls & in my case
the one with the fat ass. It is a birthday.
A celebration for 13 years of boyhood & R. Kelly
siphons..../
The boys' hands are trying to find the engine...
-----------------------------
If someone said-"real quick, what do you like about this collection-don't think" I think I would've spat back "hood elegance." Lovelace is from Queens but got her MFA from Alabama. It's the way her work inhabits both locales fah me, perhaps that "yeah I been to school but don't get it twisted" vibe. A good example of what she does in this regard is "Veterans Memorial Drive," named after a stretch of road in Tuscaloosa. I enjoy the formality of the opening which gives way to Ls and "nigga" and "blight of seclusion" then back to "shotty" and even "wazoo." Her dexterity is evident.
I am not a woman
excited by war
relics, though
I am considering
buying a gun. The kind
lean as tenderloin, but still
burst the fire through. I mean,
I am a small girl
in her lonesome. No
guaranteed safety
of my nigga at night. No,
just me, and my sharpest knife
smoking an L
near the window sill;
a blight of seclusion.
But, you know,
there is an entire boulevard
for a veterans memory
in Tuscaloosa. That
is not what I oppose...
I wonder if this is history
when visiting a country
that has bombed you out
the wazoo. My God. Where
am I with the 12 gauge shotty? Who
am I, but a afraid
that living in a country
that celebrates
a machine that kills
thousands of children
and also prints
God Bless America
on its license plates,
will garner me
the worst kind
of karma.
Here, Lovelace addresses the commodification of black athletes. The presence of John Tyler Morgan, a six-term senator from Alabama (and also a notorious slave-holding segregationist and lynching advovate who fought for the Confederacy in the civil war) menances the poem. She contrasts the way Henry's body, or any black man's body, could be "collapsed" by "condensed lead" with the figurative genuflecting of a Confederate flag-waving redneck before that body-as long as it's running for touchdowns. Indeed, "the field stretches over the centuries"-from those Morgan's slaves toiled in to the one these boys play on, having been predisposed by centuries of discrimination to use their bodies to attain livelihoods their minds have not been prepared to gain them.
Roll Tide
Derrick Henry & I have similar sized hands.
I know by way of immortality:
a cast of them in hardened cement,
a feature of the co-captain shrine
on the Tuscaloosa Quad.
My mama wants to know if I have seen him
IRL & my patience glints in its smallness.
This campus is big in its body; doubles
in density on game days.
Truthfully, I have aged out
of college campus recognition,
but mama insists on his unordinary:
to spot a 6'3, black man, 250lbs is a possible
miracle.
& I will not say of his stature
a correlation to an inhuman body i.e. any non-bipedal
or feathered one. A someone,
someone could miss place w/ myth;
Henry...a durable guy.
The adjective "durable":
a cramped closet of tragic names,
the collapse of a body's height
under condensed lead.
Sen. John Tyler Morgan was a college sports fan
in his want of human bodies
to perform an unpaid labor.
Meaning, I have a relation
to the most tragic of names
that university buildings are named after.
& the stadium is dressed in Henry's
name every night:
A man who drove 357 miles
in a truck with two confederate flags as axles
chants Henry's name for the Heisman.
& I am in awe of how the field
spreads across a century.
I live in 2016, a year w/ linage
beyond a goal post. & I cry
seeing Henry's hands forever in the ground.
Hands i've never seen, but through the TV screen.
& here even John Tyler Morgan must love the man w/ skin
he'd have once vouched to burn back to the earth.
I cheer w/ my mama for Henry winning the Heisman.
The game ends & the stadium is an emptying lake.
Blood rises when we win. It's tradition.
Here's to the land of game
that lets a man reclaim the land. Raise glasses
& hope his mama good.
---------------------
Arguably, the most moving piece here is "For The Days That Are Today," a lament for unarmed Black victims of police shootings and a call to protest. Her hope that "the white Alabama man" would walk with the poem's speaker "for the black __________________ murdered/again" brings to mind the events of this past summer, where much more of white America (than is typically the case) seemed to bristle with anger and eventually joined protests over the deaths of Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and Ahmaud Arbery.
I want,
after waking to the news
that is always the news
& changing the Facebook
autoplay settings as to not
see the blood out
of where it is meant to be in
of the black / brown him / her / they,
to peer out my blinds
& see my left neighbor bundling
their shrub switches
into torch, my right neighbor’s face
sobbing raw, my whole complex
making weapons of their outrage.
I want every person in the street.
I want every person in the street.
I want every person in this street.
I want their hands, not adorned
but useful in brass knuckles. Hands wielding
bats. Bike chains repurposed.
Hatchets. Hammers. Scythes & machetes.
I don’t want guns in the street. This war
is personal (I prefer to feel
a tooth unhook
from gums). I want to see the white Alabama man
walking w/ me & we both
on the way together
for the black __________________ murdered
again. I want every street
domestically in feet
en route to what would be
a star on the map of America.
Which could be DC / Baton Rouge /
NY / Minneapolis. I want
hands in lovers
hands walking. I want
children napping
in the arms
of their walking fathers.
The battle
is
this urgent. I want the blocks
thick w/ movement
cause this
death
will not
be held.
I had the pleasure of meeting and hearing Lovelace read in Tampa in 2018, and had to get the book from her right away. This is a powerful debut and I'm eager to pick up whatever she has to offer us in the future.
The boys play "Ignition," & the girls dance
the only way 2003 allows-the bottom half
of my cornrows slapping my back. The thick braid
reminding me of what is mine & what is added.
Long hair because Alicia Keys has long hair
& I think she is the most beautiful girl &
I kissed her CD once before I fell asleep but right now
we are dancing & dancing to the words of Robert
who croons a deep thrum into the Rec center. The boys
are grabbing hands of the prettiest girls & in my case
the one with the fat ass. It is a birthday.
A celebration for 13 years of boyhood & R. Kelly
siphons..../
The boys' hands are trying to find the engine...
-----------------------------
If someone said-"real quick, what do you like about this collection-don't think" I think I would've spat back "hood elegance." Lovelace is from Queens but got her MFA from Alabama. It's the way her work inhabits both locales fah me, perhaps that "yeah I been to school but don't get it twisted" vibe. A good example of what she does in this regard is "Veterans Memorial Drive," named after a stretch of road in Tuscaloosa. I enjoy the formality of the opening which gives way to Ls and "nigga" and "blight of seclusion" then back to "shotty" and even "wazoo." Her dexterity is evident.
I am not a woman
excited by war
relics, though
I am considering
buying a gun. The kind
lean as tenderloin, but still
burst the fire through. I mean,
I am a small girl
in her lonesome. No
guaranteed safety
of my nigga at night. No,
just me, and my sharpest knife
smoking an L
near the window sill;
a blight of seclusion.
But, you know,
there is an entire boulevard
for a veterans memory
in Tuscaloosa. That
is not what I oppose...
I wonder if this is history
when visiting a country
that has bombed you out
the wazoo. My God. Where
am I with the 12 gauge shotty? Who
am I, but a afraid
that living in a country
that celebrates
a machine that kills
thousands of children
and also prints
God Bless America
on its license plates,
will garner me
the worst kind
of karma.
Here, Lovelace addresses the commodification of black athletes. The presence of John Tyler Morgan, a six-term senator from Alabama (and also a notorious slave-holding segregationist and lynching advovate who fought for the Confederacy in the civil war) menances the poem. She contrasts the way Henry's body, or any black man's body, could be "collapsed" by "condensed lead" with the figurative genuflecting of a Confederate flag-waving redneck before that body-as long as it's running for touchdowns. Indeed, "the field stretches over the centuries"-from those Morgan's slaves toiled in to the one these boys play on, having been predisposed by centuries of discrimination to use their bodies to attain livelihoods their minds have not been prepared to gain them.
Roll Tide
Derrick Henry & I have similar sized hands.
I know by way of immortality:
a cast of them in hardened cement,
a feature of the co-captain shrine
on the Tuscaloosa Quad.
My mama wants to know if I have seen him
IRL & my patience glints in its smallness.
This campus is big in its body; doubles
in density on game days.
Truthfully, I have aged out
of college campus recognition,
but mama insists on his unordinary:
to spot a 6'3, black man, 250lbs is a possible
miracle.
& I will not say of his stature
a correlation to an inhuman body i.e. any non-bipedal
or feathered one. A someone,
someone could miss place w/ myth;
Henry...a durable guy.
The adjective "durable":
a cramped closet of tragic names,
the collapse of a body's height
under condensed lead.
Sen. John Tyler Morgan was a college sports fan
in his want of human bodies
to perform an unpaid labor.
Meaning, I have a relation
to the most tragic of names
that university buildings are named after.
& the stadium is dressed in Henry's
name every night:
A man who drove 357 miles
in a truck with two confederate flags as axles
chants Henry's name for the Heisman.
& I am in awe of how the field
spreads across a century.
I live in 2016, a year w/ linage
beyond a goal post. & I cry
seeing Henry's hands forever in the ground.
Hands i've never seen, but through the TV screen.
& here even John Tyler Morgan must love the man w/ skin
he'd have once vouched to burn back to the earth.
I cheer w/ my mama for Henry winning the Heisman.
The game ends & the stadium is an emptying lake.
Blood rises when we win. It's tradition.
Here's to the land of game
that lets a man reclaim the land. Raise glasses
& hope his mama good.
---------------------
Arguably, the most moving piece here is "For The Days That Are Today," a lament for unarmed Black victims of police shootings and a call to protest. Her hope that "the white Alabama man" would walk with the poem's speaker "for the black __________________ murdered/again" brings to mind the events of this past summer, where much more of white America (than is typically the case) seemed to bristle with anger and eventually joined protests over the deaths of Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and Ahmaud Arbery.
I want,
after waking to the news
that is always the news
& changing the Facebook
autoplay settings as to not
see the blood out
of where it is meant to be in
of the black / brown him / her / they,
to peer out my blinds
& see my left neighbor bundling
their shrub switches
into torch, my right neighbor’s face
sobbing raw, my whole complex
making weapons of their outrage.
I want every person in the street.
I want every person in the street.
I want every person in this street.
I want their hands, not adorned
but useful in brass knuckles. Hands wielding
bats. Bike chains repurposed.
Hatchets. Hammers. Scythes & machetes.
I don’t want guns in the street. This war
is personal (I prefer to feel
a tooth unhook
from gums). I want to see the white Alabama man
walking w/ me & we both
on the way together
for the black __________________ murdered
again. I want every street
domestically in feet
en route to what would be
a star on the map of America.
Which could be DC / Baton Rouge /
NY / Minneapolis. I want
hands in lovers
hands walking. I want
children napping
in the arms
of their walking fathers.
The battle
is
this urgent. I want the blocks
thick w/ movement
cause this
death
will not
be held.
I had the pleasure of meeting and hearing Lovelace read in Tampa in 2018, and had to get the book from her right away. This is a powerful debut and I'm eager to pick up whatever she has to offer us in the future.
September 15, 2019
2.5 stars
This collection had a lot of promise. The theme and the message were important. Some of the poems and lines were powerful. I feel like it’s unfair of me to ask someone to be more vulnerable, but I feel like the poet was barely letting the reader in which made it hard to connect to the pieces.
This collection had a lot of promise. The theme and the message were important. Some of the poems and lines were powerful. I feel like it’s unfair of me to ask someone to be more vulnerable, but I feel like the poet was barely letting the reader in which made it hard to connect to the pieces.
April 12, 2018
Brilliant book!! Reading it made my smile, laugh, and yet my heart was at times heavy. When I finished the book, I wanted more...I can't wait to read more of Nabila Lovelace's work.
Read
August 20, 2020“Collective memory / is a hell of a snag.” Whew. Though I’ve been meaning to read this for several years, somehow this one snuck up on me; I’ve definitely got a lot to chew on from its pages!
July 26, 2021
Truly powerful poetry and an unmistakable voice, tackling themes such as inherited trauma, be that familial, cultural or backed by the State.
April 3, 2022
CN: all the types of violence, death of a grandparent
4.5 stars
4.5 stars
April 3, 2026
where is your name now? I DONT KNOW IM SHIMMERING! myth, violence, allegiance, outcry, return, desire, city
December 23, 2023
Arresting verses. Gentle, dynamic poems about family and resilience.
April 26, 2021
“What else / is my greatest fear, but that I too / am capable of this carnage? / That a God / too / will still love me.”
Displaying 1 - 18 of 18 reviews