Exhibitionist

Smart, raunchy poems that are sorry-not-sorry.


One minute she’s drying her underwear on the corner of your mirror, the next she’s asking the sky to swallow her up: the speaker of Exhibitionist oscillates between a complete rejection of shame and the consuming heaviness of it. Painfully funny, brutally honest, and alarmingly perceptive, Molly Cross Blanchard’s poems use humour and pop culture as vehicles for empathy and sorry-not-sorry confessionalism. 


‘Read her poems first to marvel at the well-crafted voicing of sexuality. Read a second time to appreciate Cross-Blanchard’s beautiful charge of juxtaposition. Again and again, she places the erotic beside the mundane so that both are transformed – a dirty basement carpet becomes the backdrop of profound intimacy and gas-station coffee acts as a symbol of self-discovery.’ — Amber Dawn, author of My Art is Killing Me and Sodom Road Exit


‘Sticky, sad, and sultry, Exhibitionist is a merry-go-round circling back to the tender, awkward parts of ourselves. Cross-Blanchard allows her poems to ask the reader out for ice cream, fart at a dinner party, sprawl out on a chaise longue, stare through a dusty skylight, and whisper that they think they may love you. And that love will be unmistakably mutual.’ — Mallory Tater, author of The Birth Yard


‘If this book had a fragrance, it’d be a Britney perfume, any one of them really, but with hints of prairie in the dry late-summer, notes of the sweet ocean smell that passes through Vancouver when the wind gets high, and a fabulous pair of overalls.’ — Katherena Vermette, author of The Break