"I have never wanted to be mystified," Flum writes in one of the startlingly insightful prose works that support the volume's filigree, feathery, flightworthy verse, all hummingbird and hunger and momentum: these poems keep their hummingbird consciousness thoughtful, attentive, in motion, "almost flying," even as its fertilities and their impediments yoke it to our biologically complicated Earth. Can hummingbirds marry? Can they take multiple lovers? Human beings like this powerful poet can, and we do, and we need poems about that taking, and that giving, and those satisfactions, and those needs. Flum offers a starship, an aviary, a sanctuary in half-crowned sonnets and other rooms, durable, breathing, bruised. Ask permission first. Then come in. "Pick up what you need."

— Stephanie Burt, author of We Are Mermaids

Éluard says, “There is another world, and it is in this one.”  Liza Flum’s poems ask us to consider what might be proper figures for love the world declines to see. Perhaps birds? – the smallest ones and fastest, darting and head-butting, negotiating or imposing terms. And maybe the right form to express this love is the sonnet—in glorious multiple enactments—or the micro-essay?  In these poems, such creatures and forms emerge into their moments, shimmering with life and light.  As a new generation discovers not so much how to open and reconfigure love’s possibilities as how to imagine and enable the possibilities we have always had, Liza Flum’s gorgeous book wings onto the scene and hovers: quick and glimmering, fierce, iridescent.

— Katharine Coles, author of Ghost Apples

Hover is smart and it smarts—each poem lands like a dart into the cork of the mind and heart. Pinning ideas with forceps and form, the poet turns and upturns tradition in a kind of zoetrope, faster and faster, animating what was, only moments before, in singular rendering, still. Stillness (a momentary pause) and stillness (the endurance of a thing) makes this shimmering debut a distillation of nectar essential for those of us living in “bodies with wings.”

— Benjamin Garcia, author of Thrown in the Throat