This absence of certitude about home—what it is, where it is, whether it is a noun or a verb, a being or a becoming—runs through the various essays, fictions, and poems that Buchanan collects in the Go Home! anthology.
When they finally arrived in San Ysidro, California, she climbed out of the coyote’s trunk, where she was reborn, right there in the corner of a McDonald’s parking lot, parallel to the gargantuan 405 freeway, which looked that night like the tentacles of an electric octopus—bursts of white headlights and red taillights, swirling and whizzing by, right across the chain-link fence.
Lyrical, brooding, and delightfully dreamlike, the novel is a strange and ruthless journey into the ailing heart of humanity—and a bizarre peek into the mind of a brilliant new novelist.
Death might as well be my father’s pen name indecent hours ragged on his breath and I of course am his for knowing the night is no place for the softness even of an eye
“Just historically, a lot of poets have had a bad time in their forties. Writers start publishing in their late twenties or early thirties—I think that’s when most poets probably begin to publish. I started a little bit earlier than that. At some level, I feel as though I’ve had very lucky innings, and I suppose I’m thinking about myself: when is it going to stop, or has it already stopped? How am I going to keep myself honest?”