In What Turtle Blood Tastes Like, Lamb sifts through the dirt, hungry for roots, for memory, for the bones of ancestors. Regret, doubt and anxiety are connective tissue, linking childhood to fatherhood and house to body. The debut poetry collection interrogates what is inherited and what can be cultivated through postmemory. Turtle blood tastes like mud and skunk cabbage, is bitter like iron and fear. These poems taste like summers used to smell, musky, dirty, perfect.
