Poetry is not medicine, it is not good or morally uplifting. It lives in the interstices, amoral yet virtuous in the philosophical sense of virtue, stereotype-crushing yet recognising the forms of our dreams in the Platonic sense. It is healing, refining, and it sifts through human consciousness—if we allow it—replacing the dross with the healing freedoms that are often spare, brief, and free of political ideology. – Mary O’Donnell