Li Zhuang's But Octopi Don't Sing is both playful and piercing. It is a chapbook that moves its many arms through the tangled waters of time, language, and desire. Growing up in China, studying in the United States, Zhuang's writing bridges the chasm between cultures, navigating the cartography of womanhood, queerness, and migration. Her poems create a landscape of modern temples where a mother prays for her daughter's safety, and the court of the Tang Dynasty is resurrected with modern wit. Across constantly moving landscapes of society and desire, Zhuang explores what it means to live transnationally-"a river tugged/ from both ends."

These poems revel in nuance and language, transforming mistranslations and misinterpretations into art. Zhuang's poems are startling, honest, and wry. Humor and fury coexist with tenderness and vulnerability, all a testament to endurance. In this era of uncertainty, But Octopi Don't Sing offers a clear, disarming voice that embraces what is different, and defiantly yet fiercely alive. Yet teaches us how to remain soft and let "the most vulnerable/ part of your body decide."