Almost all of the titles in this beautiful "little" book bleed into the poems that follow them—so goes Ocean Vuong's way of piercing at his subconscious until we are aware of it as part of our collective unconscious. What this poet sees on the street, in a blizzard, or even while studying an apple reminds me of those dreams we have in common: dreams in which we are falling but never touch ground, dreams in which we are naked in the presence of men suited for our ruin.
—Jericho Brown, Please

Anyone who has already sensed that “hope is a feathered thing that dies in the Lord’s mouth,” should get their hands on NO. Honest, intimate, and brimming with lyric intensity, these stunning poems come of age with a fifth of vodka and an afternoon in an attic, with a record stuck on please, with starlight on a falling bomb. Even as Vuong leads you through every pleasure a body deserves and all the ensuing grief, these poems restore you with hope, that godforsaken thing—alive, singing along to the radio, suddenly sufficient.
—Traci Brimhall, Our Lady of the Ruins