Longlist Finalist, 2023 Julie Suk Award Trailer Park Psalms traces the speaker’s journey beyond his boyhood trailer park, through an American landscape marked by violence―from a gas line explosion in his hometown to his father’s war memories to the scars of colonialism inscribed in place, language, and ecology. Along the way, he searches for sources of awe that might inspire us, even in a compromised world: the everyday miracle of eyesight, the courage of the Voyager spacecrafts, and the “clumsy kindness” of family members trying to mend the damages of the past. In the end, what he finds isn’t faith but the hope that “if there’s a heaven, we will bend / to examine our old selves / and wonder how something so delicate / was ever allowed.” Ryler Dustin’s poems achieve a clear and accessible quality, not through the simplicity of idea or emotion (for his poems are rich with surprising language and complex sentiment) but through his remarkable facility with syntax. Indeed, his elegant sentences convey feeling with vulnerability and sensitivity, while achieving what can only be called pure music. The ingenious metaphors in Trailer Park Psalms manage to contain the contradictory and conflicting emotions that come with loss, nostalgia, humor, and the effort to cope with the wounds of a complicated personal history. -- Kwame Dawes, author of UnHistory with John Kinsella Although the poems in Trailer Park Psalms range widely (from a hardscrabble trailer park in the Pacific Northwest to London to the very edge of our galaxy), they are united by Ryler Dustin’s fine intelligence and his mastery of image and tone. These poems meditate on the persistence of memory, the difficulties of love, and the curiosities of ecology with real clarity, always offering us voyages toward knowledge, awe, and an invigorated sense of self. -- Kevin Prufer, author of The Art of Fiction: Poems The poems in Ryler Dustin’s Trailer Park Psalms radiate with ache, pull us toward the awe of memory and love and the holy ringing only a body can make. If Dustin is right, and ‘love . . . means to make a space for this wrecked world inside us,’ then this collection is a profound act of love, offering the wrecked world inside us a tender home, an exquisite language with which to make itself known. -- Stacey Waite, author of Butch Geography Word by word, Ryler Dustin creates a world, complete with its ditches and flames and warnings, as well as the lovers and friends and family who walk briefly through it. These are poems of love and ferocious need, and what is loved is all-encompassing, from a stolen cigarette to a wayward star. This is a voice from an American wilderness, one that has echoes of Whitman, in its largeness and its heart. -- Nick Flynn, author of I Will Destroy You What I have loved about Ryler Dustin’s poems since I first heard him read them in Bellingham, Washington, back in 2007, is the way they are offered with a gentle quiet that gives way to the quiet in me. The poems in this collection are no different; how his reflections on memory and place within the Pacific Northwest call to how we fit in the worlds that surround us, similar as how a walk in the forest allows us to join the conversation of silence that passes between the trees. -- Anis Mogjani, poet laureate of Oregon and two-time Individual National Poetry Slam champion There’s a rural charm and sense of danger lurking in Trailer Park Psalms , but it is exactly the perpetual threat of poverty and violence that make the pieces sing. -- Adriana E. Ramírez, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette Winner of the 2023 Agnes Lynch Starrett Poetry Prize Ryler Dustin has represented Seattle on the final stage of the Individual World Poetry Slam, and his poems appear in outlets like Verse Daily , Gulf Coast , and The Best of Iron Horse . He is the author of Heavy Lead Birdsong from Write Bloody Publishing. A graduate of the MFA program at the University of Houston and the PhD program at the University of Nebraska–Lincoln, he has lived in Michigan, Spain, the Jack Kerouac House in Orlando, and an off-grid cabin in Oregon. He recently moved back to his hometown of Bellingham, Washington. FIRST STAR   It is here, in the empty lot across from K-Mart, dusk falling on the cusp of summer, that you realize you love her. She has asked you to teach her to drive, you lied about having a license, and your mother’s Metro is not cut out for this, how she kills the clutch again and again as you brace your bodies against the dash, laughing. You are not cut out for it, either—the way she jokes with the boys at your lunch table, grin flashing, hair black as volcanic glass. You cannot ease the ache her body makes in yours no matter what you do, even when you are making love behind her mother’s leaky apartment, or lying in the damp grass after, watching geese sign their mysterious arrow overhead. Soon her father will vanish again, her mother remarry and take her to Georgia. On the phone she’ll talk