I do not think I have ever encountered a poet less self-consciously or more powerfully female. St. Germain does not try to intellectualize or abstract her gender; neither does she try to escape from it. I am that I am, as Someone once said: she accepts herself with a fullness, with an intensity, and with a gloriously swaggering melodiousness that are, I think, new to poetry in our language.  Burton Raffel

It is Sheryl St. Germain's voice that will finally get you. Hers is a voice of a master singer, one trained in the ancient ways of telling a story and one fiercely contemporary. It speaks a wild, native tongue, translatable only by the turns we are willing to make to enter deeply into our own experiences as travelers in an almost unbelievable story.  Darrell Bourque


Of The Small Door of Your Death: 

In Sheryl St. Germain’s new collection, we find ourselves enthralled by one woman’s attempt to look straight into the eyes of Loss without blinking—to speak, without stuttering, grief’s true name—a name none of us wants to know, though we always listen for its inevitable approach. St. Germain’s work teaches us how to talk back, how to talk through the intimate agonies that, in many ways, define what it means to be human now.  Muriel Rukeyser said poetry cannot save us but it is the kind of thing that could.  I think this book is proof of that.   —Tim Seibles

These poems chronicle the passage of a mother and her son into the abyss of drugs, sorrow, confusion, hope, despair, and love. The mother’s voice struggles to bear witness, to be present, forgoing excuses while trying to answer why, the question that rings a million times in mothers’ hearts throughout the world, to forever cycle and orbit into every cell of the compassionate and caring heart. This collection gives us answers in gray, neither black nor white, but as they must be in our human experience, gray as the dawn that precedes the rising sun. —Jimmy Santiago Baca