mock, vent, careening gathers a year of bird-saturated poems into a living aviary: an epic-in-episodes where flock becomes form and voice takes wing. Across “hatch,” “flock,” and “sing,” the sequence moves through childhood and body, structural and intimate violence, and the strange joy of remaking a life, returning always to birds as neighbor, mirror, and mouth. Jane Won’t braids queer desire, disability poetics, and survival into a bright aviary where hummingbirds, loons, and carrier pigeons cross with mothers, systems, and ghosts—each line feathered with risk and tenderness. Through collage, echolalia, and serial lyric, the collection testifies to violence and joy in equal measure, then asks what it means to keep singing. It is a book of birds, yes—and a book of staying.