Borealis

In Sloan's book-length essay, readers are invited along for a meditative journey to Homer, Alaska, a remote, ever-sunny or ever-dark town that has been the site for multiple loves and myriad selves in the author's past. For this piece, Sloan returns to Homer alone, in her queer, Black body, observing how the experience of place changes over time. After many visits spent camping on the remote properties of friends, walking miles to find electricity or plumbing, Sloan spends this trip in a trendy tiny home, always searching for new ways to structure the endless days. Her chronicle is dreamlike and rife with references to art and culture, social science, and Sloan's past relationships. The characters she encounters inspire much reflection as well, after all, no one lands in such a unique setting without a darn good story of how and why. This is stunning. Sloan's prose is breathtaking as she explores the wilderness: the glaciers, the eternal sun, the rocky beaches, the long jut of land, and the spit that pushes Homer and its humans further into the expanse.

Essayist Sabatini Sloan (Dreaming of Ramadi in Detroit) muses on ice, art, and her exes in this lyrical exploration of Homer, Alaska. "I have spent three summers here with women I've dated," she writes, and returns on her own, exploring the town through her memories. There's "K," an ex-girlfriend who brought the author to Homer for the first time, and an unnamed second ex who "seduced me by embodying the personality of the desert." Along the way, Sabatini Sloan weaves in references to a slew of artists: she muses on Jean Toomer's "circle fragments," cites Paul Simon as an influence, quotes Anne Carson, and listens to Björk while looking at eagles. But most prominent is the work of photographer Lorna Simpson, which the author examines in depth. Throughout, the descriptions are surprising and funny ("Alaskans were like my girlfriend, prepared for discomfort, easy to smile. Dressed like geology majors"), the musings on race in Alaska poignant ("You may be the second African American person there," her father says), and the prose punchy, vulnerable, and surprising: "I don't know how to be me and write about nature... I don't know the names of anything. I wanted to call seagulls kayaks a minute ago." There's plenty here to please essay fans. (Nov.)