“Reading L. A. Johnson’s Little Climates feels at times like entering a room in which some calamity happened years ago, or is about to occur. Here we find ‘scissors left by accident in bed,’ there ‘an orchid widowed on a shelf.’ Unrest lingers in the floorboards, in drifting dust motes, in the weight of the light. Despite this tension, Johnson is not an alarmist; her graceful and precise language is that of someone ‘shielded by ghosts / and shadow,’ someone who knows the way through. These poems are as mysteriously moving as they are insightful. It’s hard not to come away haunted by them.”

          —Mark Bibbins, author of They Don’t Kill You Because They’re Hungry, They Kill You Because They’re Full 

“In Little Climates, L. A. Johnson’s elliptical lyrics glimmer with a gestural winter palette and an eerie baroque interiority. These elegant poems map the lavish and enigmatic ‘microclimates // in affection’: those moody regions of wounded intimacy. Silvery and elemental, allegorical and sonically rich, Johnson’s magnetic poems all point toward ‘that animal hunger for true north.'”

          —Anna Journey, author of The Atheist Wore Goat Silk 


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