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The poems in Danielle Pieratti's Fugitives are punctuated by avoidance, disguise, and sheltering of all kinds—escapes both from and to. They combine the magical and the mundane, shifting between dreams and the domestic, while exploring the nebulous confines of marriage, motherhood, and girlhood. Ultimately they learn a kind of tentative security in a 'strange, unyielding,' and deserved present, one in which 'You are / safer than you thought. / You are almost / sleeping. And your body / is shaped like cloth and sounds / like a century.'