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Who is Eustace, and where’s use in that name? How is his tongue doing that thing in my mouth? How is her mouth doing this thing in my tongue?
Out beyond the laws of kinship, Hyperglossia is equal parts kin with Kathy Acker’s In Memoriam to Identity and kari edwards’s a day in the life of p.. Szymaszek’s book proposes a world of post-mortality nobody can be slain in absentia where bodies and souls are transported trans-oceanically in leaky vessels whose very uselessness argues for a radically queer trans-poetics, a kind of transmigratory being in which identity, like gender a tomb, can only fail because one ceases to exist as this or that thing. Hyperglossia nourishes trans-identity, an ailment not to be treated except with anagrammatic homeopathies sibilant whispers which
cure our injured declarations of love by transmuting a language that
otherwise falsifies us into wholeness and pretends to fix us. Hyperglossia is the critical form disruption takes to interrupt the regime. This is writing as metempsychosis, activating a movement across bodies and names, species and spaces, making what’s been excluded from sense sensibleblown pink omissions where we’re all twice dying between honey and shipwreck.

—Rob Halpern

Hyperglossia takes
us on a journey into the interior where the skin, both liminal and
littoral, shifts before us. This movement ("push the boats out / move
them far from my / inaccuracy"), struggles for and against sense and
the eventual record of it. Embodied and disembodied, orienting and
disorienting, the mind strives against where a soul might reside,
evading the shadows cast by disfigurement, estrangment, or violence.
But the itinerant cannot always cover her tracks and the poet hangs on,
asking, until the very end, "what of my persuasion now."

—Ammiel Alcalay

Hyperglossia is
part anthropology, part anatomy; it is part song and part dissonance.
Yet Szymaszek’s poetry is always too wily, and too alive with its own
pleasures--in short, too wise--to accept any conscription to stable
identity. In this "skirmish with a makeshift tongue," the poet keeps us
"attuned to close-calls and eruptions of selfhoods." Demonstrating that
language and identity are "a temporary site," this poetry is a cultural
"mirroror," full of sly heresies which abet Szymaszek’s poetic
subversions so that she is able to "elude detection and find company."
Indeed, in her company, we can be grateful to find such a "superior
sayerer."

—Elizabeth Robinson