Feverland is a memoir written in essays and lyrical fragments. This book is written like a shattered mirror, each shard reflecting different light on the author, forcing the viewer to piece things together, to read with care. At the core are two central stories of trauma: sexual abuse during Lemon’s childhood and physical deterioration during his young adulthood. But Lemon’s experimental memoir, though darkly wrought, is soaked in grace. In writing about days of drug addiction and alcoholism to hospitalization, the fear of being touched to cheating on partners, Lemon exhibits a sharp self-awareness and self-compassion that makes this memoir full of hope for all of us and for “the heart overripe . . . the heart always raw. The heart churning . . . the heart aflame.”

Lemon’s voice as poet provides the perfect counterpoint to the intelligent, fact-laden content of some of the essays, which is presented as a hive of interconnected knowledge. In the essay “Heartdusting” he transitions swiftly from John Wayne to stomach cancer, from androgynous names to Quaker Oats, from Wilford Brimley to cockfighting to Bruce Dern’s 1981 movie Tattoo, from tattoos to Creutzfeldt–Jakob disease to the meat industry, from Vaishnava Bauls to Lazzaro Spallanzani. But the heart of the book is soul searching, questioning. Feverland asks us “how long to learn you are not behind the steering wheel but still you are driving the ambulance” and reminds us of the dizzying joy of forward momentum.

Milkweed Editions.