The Graves We Dig


In The Graves We Dig, Eric Elliott tunnels through memory and experience as he reconciles past and present, blood and bone, the sensation of loss with the knowledge that what is lost will remain so forever.  Grafted into beautiful photographs of decay, death, things that once were, each poem becomes a grave, a prayer.

Bloody Fine Chapbooks are made with only the finest of materials: grave dirt ink, paper pressed from the memories of the forgotten, and bound in what’s left when the flesh has failed.



Ampersand Books
Eric Elliot's poems will gut you, but keep reading. It is about time a poet came along and stretched out our ribs to clench the meaty heart beneath. Death plays amid these poems. There is a perverse joy in his cruelty, a playfulness beneath images of spattered blood and broken dreams. This book is full of missed opportunities, unspoken goodbyes, the eerie footsteps of that creature waiting to follow you home in the dark, but let him follow. I dare you.
Ampersand Books
I have an unreasonable fear of violent death, so reading these poems is like shock therapy. Truth is, they remind me that we all bleed the same blood but that some of us are blessed--a word I've never used before--to lead lives untouched by real violence (untouched by war, murder, rage). So I should shut up about my fears; they're irrational. But others, yes, so many others, Elliott's poems remind me, have good reason to fear. And I feel for them.