Pulitzer Prize in Poetry, 2024 Finalist Griffin Poetry Prize, 2024 Shortlist Publishers Weekly Best Books of 2023 Library Journal Best Books of 2023 Guardian Best Books of 2023 Financial Times Best Books of 2023 Electric Lit Best books of 2023 It is rare to find in one collection an entire skyline burning and the quiet to follow a single worm, to hear soil breathe — in Jorie Graham's fifteenth poetry collection, you do. Jorie Graham’s fifteenth poetry collection, To 2040 , opens in question punctuated as fact: “Are  we / extinct yet. Who owns / the map.” In these visionary new poems, Graham is part historian,  part cartographer as she plots an apocalyptic world where rain must be translated, silence sings  louder than speech, and wired birds parrot recordings of their extinct ancestors. In one poem, the speaker is warned by a clairvoyant “the American experiment will end in 2030.” Graham shows us our potentially inevitable future soundtracked by sirens among industrial ruins, contemplating the loss of those who inhabited and named them.  In sparse lines that move with cinematic precision, these poems pan from overhead views of  reshaped shorelines to close-ups of a worm burrowing through earth. Here, we linger, climate  crisis on hold, as Graham asks us to sit silently, to hear soil breathe. An urgent open letter to the  future, with a habit of looking back, To 2040 is narrated by a speaker who reflects on her own  mortality—in the glass window of a radiotherapy room, in the first “claw full of hair” placed  gently on a green shower ledge. In poems that look to 2040 as both future and event-horizon, we leave the collection warned, infinitely wiser, and yet more attentively on edge. “Inhale. / Are you still there / the sun says to me.” And, from the title poem, “what was yr message, what were u meant to / pass on?”