Jesus is a Voyeur
by Bret Crowle
Jesus is a Voyeur is a collection of feminist gothic poetry which deconstructs and explores the intertwined roles of femininity, sexuality, and Catholicism while growing up and maturing in rural Alberta. The poetry acts as reverential protest towards societal foundations reinforced by Catholicism and home, exploring the inevitable dynamics of life, place, family, and self. Through an external voyeuristic voice, as well as through internal expressions that mirror confessionals, Jesus is a Voyeur places readers in both the role of voyeur and exhibitionist.
This book is scheduled for public release in October, but is available now for pre-order. Books pre-ordered will ship as soon as we receive copies from the printer.
$19.95 CAD
Additional information
| Weight | .208 kg |
|---|---|
| Dimensions | 9 × 6 × 0.375 in |
| Page Count | 88 |
| Binding | Soft Cover with flaps |
| Year Published | 2024 |
Bret Crowle
Bret Crowle is an emerging author who was born and raised in rural Alberta. She grew up participating in church and school choirs, and these communities taught her that making noise is a deeply healing art. This debut poetry collection only reinforces this love for making noise by challenging subjective societal norms and embracing the human right that is taking up space. When she’s not writing, Crowle can also be found plunking on a keyboard, howling show tunes, practicing one-woman renditions of her favourite Broadway shows, and waiting for spring so she can splash in puddles.
Liminality
I was born my father’s daughter.
On Sundays
mother tampered my hands
into those of her own.
On Sundays
I was born my mother’s daughter.
Into those of her own,
she molded my palms, outstretched.
I was born my mother’s daughter.
She molded my palms, outstretched.
I pretended I hadn’t touched myself
watching women hold hands.
I pretended I hadn’t touched myself
with the hands, tempered by my mother,
watching women hold hands.
I was born my father’s daughter.
    I’d said an extra Hail Mary to repent,
    but as rosary beads pushed into skin,
    they slipped through fingers, an unholy descent.
    I blamed my sister for the sin.