<p><b>Winner of the Max Ritvo Poetry Prize, Jackson Holbert’s <i>Winter Stranger</i> is a solemn record of addiction and the divided affections we hold for the landscapes that shape us.</b></p><p>In the cold, seminal countryside of eastern Washington, a boy puts a bullet through his skull in a high school parking lot. An uncle crushes oxycodone into “a thousand red granules.” Hawks wheel above a dark, indifferent river. “I left that town / forever,” Holbert writes, but its bruises appear everywhere, in dreams of violent men and small stars, the ghosts of friends and pills. These poems<i></i>incite a complex emotional discourse on what it means <i>to leave</i>—if it’s ever actually possible, or if our roots only grow longer to accommodate the distance.</p><p>Punctuated by recollections of loved ones consumed by their addictions, <i>Winter Stranger</i> also questions the capricious nature of m