Feral Woman, Feral Woman

Jarringly poetic wisdom from a woman who grew up standing on the back seat of a '68 Barracuda with a book of Dorothy Parker's poetry in her gritty fingers. Feral Woman is Aimee Hope's debut as a serious poet with rebellious fist in the air, baring her canines while exposing the depth of her soul. Fearlessly, she invites you into quiet slivers of the overlooked truth of life, invoking poetic beauty that can only be found in the sticky shadows attached to each of us. Hope drags her skeletons from the closet and unapologetically spreads them out to be examined; dances with them alone in the night, to kick-ball-change until dawn; leaving us a postcard, filled with brutal vigilante justice in the form of verse. Bearing her scars, she delivers the promise that despite all the difficulties, life is still beautiful and worthy of a second or third look, despite the performative circus of existence, all around us. Hope reaffirms that the spirit of art is a worthy and sacred path, necessary for survival. Daring to dive deeper beneath the chaos of a tumultuous Wyoming small town upbringing in a high desert childhood, and Midwest societal norms, Hope has a perspective that can only come from overcoming. Her words illustrate the world and people she encounters with a sense of resilient whimsy and at times the gut punch to your heart, riding away bareback with a satisfied grin on her face.