Misherit is L. Gibson’s startling debut in a knotted, hybridised language constantly seeking to disentangle itself and the narrator and articulate its unlearning:
Could fawn on a fille of thy fealt.
Femines’ finesses, forgot.
Wear of all frivols and folls.
Cline to thy sulls.
Sahare-sere or sorrow-swoll.
Thou the lune, and I—whole howl.
“With Misherit, L. Gibson has set out a hybrid dialect in poetry, at once pollarded and protracted, a kind of cant belonging to a band of thieves I have met without noticing. Each of these lines is like a serpent, demanding you figure its coiling.”