In poems rich with sensuality and discord, Mukomolova explores her complex identity―Russian, Jewish, refugee, New Yorker, lesbian― through the Russian tale of Vasilyssa, a young girl left to fend for herself against the witch Baba Yaga. Heavy with family and fable, these poems are a beautiful articulation of difference under duress.
If these poems had a scent, it would be the dirty-salty air of Brighton Beach, cunt sweat, & Ck One perfume. You'll weep, then write a dirty & tender email to the ex-lover you miss most.
I have never read a book like this, and in the minutes after I finished it I found myself wishing every other book was like it. But of course, that would subtract from this book's magic—it is singularly captivating, and allows the reader to have one foot in this world (a world of Coney Island, delis, mattresses tied to cars, and wonderfully wild sex), and one foot in a completely different one (a world of fences made of skulls, witch's cloaks, and swans flying into girls' mouths). Sometimes, those worlds bleed into each other. Sometimes that happens right in the middle of poems, but the switch is so effortless it almost baffles me. As a poet, the craft in this collection thrilled me to the point of ambition. As a reader, every poem felt like another room in a large (probably haunted) house—and at first I didn't want to leave each room, but oh, I'm so thankful I did.
favorites: i’ve been to riis beach, vasilyssa considers the dark path, i ask my mother for something small, good girl, the key to all locks is a fearless heart, x
A special kind of enchantment. Poems of immigration, queer culture, and sexuality, with constant reference to the Russian fairy tales. Like a secret, sensual trip to Brighton Beach.
It’s very rare for me to feel compelled to finish a whole book of poetry in one sitting, but that’s what happened here. I enjoyed it for extremely selfish reasons. I’m also a lesbian poet who went to Michigan, albeit before it was Helen Zell. I can’t tell you how awfully accurate the poem about being an MFA student in a class of PhD candidates is, even half a lifetime later and as something I rarely think about. The poet’s storytelling, myth, and plainspoken truths, punctuated by erotic shocks, feel like a better version of what I enjoy most about my own writing. Like I said: selfish enjoyment. YMMV.
I actually saw Gala Mukomolova speak several years ago, maybe right before the pandemic, but I didn't read her work until now. I'm not sure why I put it off... maybe I knew on some level it might hurt. Somewhat appropriately, I started reading this book the year my father died, and finished it about ten or so days after the first anniversary of his death. As an internet friend once said: Same hat, trauma edition.
"What built the house also dug / the grave. She sings the song / and loves death's hands, how / they mind their own business." Mukomolova takes different styles and different themes to craft this collection. Utilizing a Russian fairy tale as the armature, she explores her outsider status as a Russian immigrant lesbian. Honest. Raw. Desperate. Vulnerable. Powerful. Unapologetic.
What Cynthia Cruz said: a world of terror and beauty; the world as it is. Also: all the modes, all the genres; a full register of being; a world and a life. And: Mukomolova’s singing is unmistakeable.
Read in about the time it took me to listen to Melodrama by Lorde, Without Protection is a poetry collection that is not afraid to explore the grim and grittiness of reality, not afraid of the complex and ever evolving intersections of identity.
A mix of poems on the past, migration, heritage, and then add in the spicy gay encounters, past emails, and craigslist missed-connections. Very well written with descriptive language, imagery, and use of repetition.
I think this was probably a strong collection that just wasn't to my personal taste. Prose poems sprinkled throughout gave me lot of trouble, and the language never captures me.
Raw and spare, in some cases autobiographical (there are Notes, which I can’t decide were necessary or not). I think this is a case where the arrangement of the poems in the collection did a disservice - it felt jumbled, confusing.