IV is a conspiracy. Four Black poets sent messages through the cracks of time because the world refused them a seat at the table. One from Jamaica freezing in Toronto. One from Jamaica clawing through New York. One from Virginia, carrying Tennessee red clay. One from the Bronx who learned that softness is a liability. They never shared a room. They gathered in the wound.
Twenty-one poems built from scar tissue and refusal. No trigger warnings. No safe spaces. No table of contents. Only a spiral that insists on being swallowed. Liberation is not a parade here. It is a break-in. Syntax is a weapon. Line breaks are barricades. Love is insurrection. Death is the midwife. Time is a pimp who collects in flesh.
By the final page, you should smell gunpowder, magnolia, wet soil, and something still burning. If you need coherence, close the book. Coherence is a cotton gin. It separates the body from the story. If you are willing to be dismantled, enter. Leave your shoes. The floor is lava made of yesterday's headlines. The storm is already inside your ribcage. The only evacuation route is further in.