Intellectual and intimate, Carolina Ebeid's Hide gathers shreds of memory, dream, and the ordinary artifacts of diaspora, as the poet casts a sounding line into her patrilineal and matrilineal histories in Palestine and Cuba. With the hum of cassettes and the glow of projectors, these poems superimpose voice upon voice, image upon image, a here upon a there, to disclose the choral noise inside postmemory.

“In Carolina Ebeid’s Hide, the words are warning flowers that feel the failures of our world by revealing themselves to be entirely responsive, adaptable, as if each seed syllable were its own telepathy machine that holds the beauty and wonder of this world up to our faces.”
—Eleni Sikelianos

“In Hide, memory is excavated and reassembled until ‘it begins to waste / like a bar of soap // turned in your hand.’ What remains in the silence after image and its negatives are woven and unwoven in the American English, Palestinian Arabic, and Cuban Spanish? Ebeid’s poems are at once spare and charged, humming to the reader.”
—Lena Khalaf Tuffaha