Here, We Bury the Hearts

An Appreciation for the Talents of a Young Poet

Poet Dom Fonce’s poetry chapbook—Here, We Bury the Hearts (2019; Finishing Line
Press)—captivated me as much for the razor-sharp poems as the fact that Fonce’s youth (in his
mid 20s) belies the maturity of his writing. Yes. Yes. I understand that “youth” is a relative term
and that my vantage point as a 64-year-old retiree who writes poetry limits (or—flip
side—expands) my outlook. But I cannot help thinking: If only I wrote poetry like this when I
was 22…33…43. I particularly love the poem “Portrait of Mr. Peanut as the Body Politic”; it
reminds me of Steel Valley’s Warren-Youngstown-Sharon triangle, which is where I grew up.
Another favorite is the last poem in the collection: “Flung.” In this poem, Dom Fonce seems to
fling his heart onto the page, and I do so admire a person who throws it down. Fonce’s work is
impressive; I am confident that his writing is on a steeply upward trajectory.