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Such Color: New and Selected Poems

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“Tracy K. Smith’s poetry is an awakening itself.” —Vogue Celebrated for its extraordinary intelligence and exhilarating range, the poetry of Tracy K. Smith opens up vast questions. Such Color: New and Selected Poems, her first career-spanning volume, traces an increasingly audacious commitment to exploring the unknowable, the immense mysteries of existence. Each of Smith’s “Tracy K. Smith’s poetry is an awakening itself.” —Vogue Celebrated for its extraordinary intelligence and exhilarating range, the poetry of Tracy K. Smith opens up vast questions. Such Color: New and Selected Poems, her first career-spanning volume, traces an increasingly audacious commitment to exploring the unknowable, the immense mysteries of existence. Each of Smith’s four collections moves farther outward: when one seems to reach the limits of desire and the body, the next investigates the very sweep of history; when one encounters death and the outer reaches of space, the next bears witness to violence against language and people from across time and delves into the rescuing possibilities of the everlasting. Smith’s signature voice, whether in elegy or praise or outrage, insists upon vibrancy and hope, even—and especially—in moments of inconceivable travesty and grief. Such Color collects the best poems from Smith’s award-winning books and culminates in thirty pages of brilliant, excoriating new poems. These new works confront America’s historical and contemporary racism and injustices, while they also rise toward the registers of the ecstatic, the rapturous, and the sacred—urging us toward love as a resistance to everything that impedes it. This magnificent retrospective affirms Smith’s place as one of the twenty-first century’s most treasured poets.


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“Tracy K. Smith’s poetry is an awakening itself.” —Vogue Celebrated for its extraordinary intelligence and exhilarating range, the poetry of Tracy K. Smith opens up vast questions. Such Color: New and Selected Poems, her first career-spanning volume, traces an increasingly audacious commitment to exploring the unknowable, the immense mysteries of existence. Each of Smith’s “Tracy K. Smith’s poetry is an awakening itself.” —Vogue Celebrated for its extraordinary intelligence and exhilarating range, the poetry of Tracy K. Smith opens up vast questions. Such Color: New and Selected Poems, her first career-spanning volume, traces an increasingly audacious commitment to exploring the unknowable, the immense mysteries of existence. Each of Smith’s four collections moves farther outward: when one seems to reach the limits of desire and the body, the next investigates the very sweep of history; when one encounters death and the outer reaches of space, the next bears witness to violence against language and people from across time and delves into the rescuing possibilities of the everlasting. Smith’s signature voice, whether in elegy or praise or outrage, insists upon vibrancy and hope, even—and especially—in moments of inconceivable travesty and grief. Such Color collects the best poems from Smith’s award-winning books and culminates in thirty pages of brilliant, excoriating new poems. These new works confront America’s historical and contemporary racism and injustices, while they also rise toward the registers of the ecstatic, the rapturous, and the sacred—urging us toward love as a resistance to everything that impedes it. This magnificent retrospective affirms Smith’s place as one of the twenty-first century’s most treasured poets.

49 review for Such Color: New and Selected Poems

  1. 4 out of 5

    Taylor

    Smith is simply a genius. Could easily become a go-to collection like Oliver's Devotions. A good way for people to get into modern poetry imo thanks to netgalley for the ARC Smith is simply a genius. Could easily become a go-to collection like Oliver's Devotions. A good way for people to get into modern poetry imo thanks to netgalley for the ARC

  2. 5 out of 5

    Cheryl

    What moves is invisible. Like music. I move in it, into it. What is the soul allowed to keep? We saw to the edge of all there is— So brutal and alive it seemed to comprehend us back. It feels Like nothing, until it lets me go. The earth is dry and they live wanting. Each with a small reservoir Of furious music heavy in the throat. I shout my name Into the traffic, and if my voice Is big enough, someone will hear it. It will land where it needs to land, And someone will catch it And come looking. We What moves is invisible. Like music. I move in it, into it. What is the soul allowed to keep? We saw to the edge of all there is— So brutal and alive it seemed to comprehend us back. It feels Like nothing, until it lets me go. The earth is dry and they live wanting. Each with a small reservoir Of furious music heavy in the throat. I shout my name Into the traffic, and if my voice Is big enough, someone will hear it. It will land where it needs to land, And someone will catch it And come looking. We live— We live— deep color our heart leaps. That was a found poem from this phenomenal, majestic, magnificent collection. Tracy K. Smith is the poet of our generation and time. I don’t think she missed anything in the canon of what it means to be alive today, together. It is heart breaking, it is hard to read, it is heart itself, maybe soul, maybe just the truth so simply laid out here, you become breathless. Not like breathless from beauty, more of a gasp of understanding at the beauty behind the pain, and hope, hope never explicitly stated but stitched into each line. Really important poetry that is also accessible. GOSPEL: MANUEL There’s a story told here By those of us who daydream To the music of crystal and steel. We brought it down From mountains built of fog Where we left the girls we married And old men married to the earth. We fed on it when there was nothing. From hunger, it grew large. And from that dark spot low in each of us Where alone we disappear to, breathing The cool nothing of night, letting the city Farther inside with each siren bleat Each assault of neon light, grounding Ourselves to this world with one hand Under the head, the other invisible— From that spot it became a woman. Part mother, part more. DROUGHT 1. The hydrangea begins as a small, bright world. Mother buries rusty nails, and the flowers Weep blue and pink. I am alone in the garden, And like all else that is living, I lean into the sun. Each bouquet will cringe and die in time While the dry earth watches. It is ugly, And the earth is ugly to allow it. Still, the petals Curl and drop. Mother calls it an exquisite waste, But there is no choice. I learn how: Before letting go, open yourself completely. Wait. When the heavens fail to answer, Curse the heavens. Wither and bend. CREDULITY …There are whole doctrines on loving. A science. I would like to know everything About convincing love to give me What it does not possess to give. And then I would like to know how to live with nothing. Not memory. Nor the taste of the words I have willed you whisper into my mouth WINTERING …White light bears down on the wordless sky. I dreamt again of my mother. I sat beside her, trying to forget the years of grief, Trying to understand the puzzle of life in her body. I speak another language, I told her. I love. She watched without speaking, as if to say Think of where I have been, what I’ve seen. Joy … It is true that death resists the present tense. But memory does death one better. Ignores the future. We sat in that room until the wood was spent. We never left the room. The wood was never spent. BRIGHT One night as Prince Henry of Portugal lay in bed it was revealed to him that he would render a great service to our Lord by the discovery of the said Ethiopias. —Duarte Pachece Pereira, Portuguese explorer, 1506 So they weren’t sure At first that what they saw Wasn’t simply the mind Telling them Enough Or whether it was true. Lean bodies. Shadows Incarnate with a grace Both dark and bright. As though the world Were showing off. Black. Like sable. Like the deep Center of the darkest fruit, The first fig. Primordial. Not sin—not yet— But satisfaction. Black As the space between stars, Distance not fathomed. Fearsome. At first sight Of those bodies, Like mine Or any other— No: like mine But intact—why Did those men, Asway that entire day, Seadrunk On parched land, Not think: The Lord is Grand. Why was that riddle Not something They knelt to? Why, Instead, did they take it as sign That their want Should lead Even as I push my fork Into the belly of each Sleeping fish, Testing for give, tasting That distant dream Of watery flight, I wonder if you— Your language of vowels, Blood that whispers Back to sails atilt On some horizon, Back to men like that— And I—whose work Tonight will be Only to offer— I wonder if you and I Have not, perhaps, Beheld one another— Flash of teeth, trickle Of adrenaline— Elsewhere, and Before. THE MACHINERY OF EVENING I am looking for my best words. Willful things That feint and dart. If I find them, I will understand The hunger that stirs us, That settles like a weight Pushing us Into that vivid dark. … You are looking too In that language you exhale Like globes of air That rise and break On the surface of what is real. I love you. These are not The words any more Than that hidden skin, Dark from childhood In a place too beautiful To exist, is you. But I reach for it And we are closer. Do you ever wonder If the answer is what gets said Again and again When my body Houses our two bodies And we are both Very briefly Filled? When we Open our mouths And that gladness Rushes out and around us … These days, I believe In everything. That you and I Are real. That this room, This simple life Have gone on And will go on. In this pause, This dim hour Between hours, I want To be what waits To be said. I touch you. SHADOW POEM You know me But the gauze that fetters the earth Keeps you from knowing We were souls together once Wave after wave of ether Alive outside of time HISTORY … Once there was a great cloud Of primeval matter. Atoms and atoms. By believing, we made it the world. We named the animals out of need. Made ourselves human out of need. There were other inventions. Plunder and damage. Insatiable fire. ___________________ Epilogue: The Seventh Day There are ways of naming the wound. There are ways of entering the dream The way a painter enters a studio: To spill. MINISTER OF SAUDADE The famous saudade of the Portuguese is a vague and constant desire for something that does not and probably cannot exist, for something other than the present, a turning towards the past or towards the future; not an active discontent or poignant sadness but an indolent dreaming wistfulness. —A. F. G. Bell, In Portugal The water is full of blue paint From all the little fishing boats Corralled for Sunday, abob in the breeze. What kind of game is the sea? Lap and drag. Crag and gleam. That continual work of wave And tide, like a wet wind, blowing The earth down to nothing. Our lives are small. And mine Is small and sharp. I try to toss it Off into the distance, forget it For good. Then my foot steps down Onto an edge and it’s mine again, All prick and spine. Like a burr Deep in winter fur. And I am Most certainly that bear. Famished…. The sky here is clear of cloud and bird, Just the sun blaring steadily through ether. What moves is invisible. Like music. I move in it, into it. It feels Like nothing, until it lets me go. DUENDE 1. The earth is dry and they live wanting. Each with a small reservoir Of furious music heavy in the throat. … And in this night that is not night, Each word is a wish, each phrase A shape their bodies ache to fill— I’m going to braid my hair Braid many colors into my hair I’ll put a long braid in my hair And write your name there They defy gravity to feel tugged back. THEFT In 1963 John Dall, a Ho-Chunk Indian, was taken from his mother’s home as part of a federal project to reduce poverty in Native American communities. He moved from foster home to foster home, haunted by recurring dreams and unsure of his own history. Years later, he was located by members of his tribe. The word Ho-Chunk means “people of the big voice.” —The Chicago Reader The world shatters Through Mother’s black hair. I breathe smoke, Tincture of sudden berries. Mother covers my eyes, But this heat is inside. It trickles out, a map Of hot tears across my face. And rivers, my own rivers, Pushing out from the desert Between my legs… One night when our bellies groan, I quiet myself watching bare branches Scratch against the moon. If night Has a voice, it is surely this wind In these trees. I get off the train. Walk backwards Over bridges. Watch perspective Diminish. Watch my breath, My ideas hover and drift In perfect clouds. They’ll Drop eventually, mingle With a river or lake. Might Even one day make it back to me. As rain, maybe, or a tall glass I drink quickly, blind With thirst. I shout my name Into the traffic, and if my voice Is big enough, someone will hear it. It will land where it needs to land, And someone will catch it And come looking. THE WEATHER IN SPACE … Is God being or pure force? The wind Or what commands it? When our lives slow And we can hold all that we love, it sprawls In our laps like a gangly doll. When the storm Kicks up and nothing is ours, we go chasing After all we’re certain to lose, so alive— Faces radiant with panic. MY GOD, IT’S FULL OF STARS Sometimes, what I see is a library in a rural community. All the tall shelves in the big open room. And the pencils In a cup at Circulation, gnawed on by the entire population. The books have lived here all along, belonging For weeks at a time to one or another in the brief sequence Of family names, speaking (at night mostly) to a face, A pair of eyes. The most remarkable lies. … Perhaps the great error is believing we’re alone, That the others have come and gone—a momentary blip— When all along, space might be chock-full of traffic, Bursting at the seams with energy we neither feel Nor see, flush against us, living, dying, deciding, Setting solid feet down on planets everywhere, Bowing to the great stars that command, pitching stones At whatever are their moons. They live wondering If they are the only ones, knowing only the wish to know, And the great black distance they—we—flicker in. … Seeing the high beams of a million galaxies flick on At twilight. Hearing the engines flare, the horns Not letting up, the frenzy of being. … When my father worked on the Hubble Telescope, he said They operated like surgeons: scrubbed and sheathed In papery green, the room a clean cold, and bright … We learned new words for things. The decade changed. The first few pictures came back blurred, and I felt ashamed For all the cheerful engineers, my father and his tribe. The second time, The optics jibed. We saw to the edge of all there is— So brutal and alive it seemed to comprehend us back. THE LARGENESS WE CAN’T SEE When our laughter skids across the floor Like beads yanked from some girl’s throat, What waits where the laughter gathers? And later, when our saw-toothed breaths Lay us down on a bed of leaves, what feeds With ceaseless focus on the leaves? It’s solid, yet permeable, like a mood. Like God, it has no face. Like lust, It flickers on without a prick of guilt. We move in and out of rooms, leaving Our dust, our voices pooled on sills. We hurry from door to door in a downpour Of days. Old trees inch up, their trunks thick With new rings. All that we see grows Into the ground. And all we live blind to Leans its deathless heft to our ears and sings. THEY MAY LOVE ALL THAT HE HAS CHOSEN AND HATE ALL THAT HE HAS … And how radiant each is, Touched by understanding, ready to stand And go forth into that unmistakable light. The good fight. One by one they rise, Believing what to do, bowing each head To what leads. And, empty of fear, buoyant With the thrill of such might they go. US & CO. We are here for what amounts to a few hours, a day at most. We feel around making sense of the terrain, our own new limbs, Bumping up against a herd of bodies until one becomes home. Moments sweep past. The grass bends then learns again to stand. THE ANGELS Two slung themselves across chairs Once in my motel room. Grizzled, In leather biker gear. Emissaries For something I needed to see. … Whose very voices cause faint souls to quake. — Quake, then, fools, and fall away! — What God do you imagine we obey? Think of the toil we must cost them, One scaled perfectly to eternity. And still, they come, telling us Through the ages not to fear. Just those two that once and never Again for me since, though There are—are there?— Sightings, flashes, hints: A proud tree in vivid sun, branches Swaying in strong wind. Rain Hurling itself at the roof. Boulders, Mounds of earth mistaken for dead Does, lions in crouch. A rust-stained pipe Where a house once stood, which I Take each time I pass it for an owl. Bright whorl so dangerous and near. My mother sat whispering with it At the end of her life While all the rooms of our house Filled up with night. THE GREATEST PERSONAL PRIVATION It is a painful and harassing business Belonging to her. We have had trouble enough, Have no comfort or confidence in them, And they appear unhappy themselves, no doubt From the trouble they have occasioned. … Glad if we may have hope of the loss of trouble. I remain in glad conscience, at peace with God And the world! I have prayed for those people Many, many, very many times. GHAZAL The sky is a dry pitiless white. The wide rows stretch on into death. Like famished birds, my hands strip each stalk of its stolen crop: our name. History is a ship forever setting sail. On either shore: mountains of men, Oceans of bone, an engine whose teeth shred all that is not our name. … THE UNITED STATES WELCOMES YOU Why and by whose power were you sent? What do you see that you may wish to steal? Why this dancing? Why do your dark bodies Drink up all the light? What are you demanding That we feel? Have you stolen something? Then What is that leaping in your chest? What is The nature of your mission? Do you seek To offer a confession? Have you anything to do With others brought by us to harm? Then Why are you afraid? And why do you invade Our night, hands raised, eyes wide, mute As ghosts? Is there something you wish to confess? Is this some enigmatic type of test? What if we Fail? How and to whom do we address our appeal? UNREST IN BATON ROUGE after the photo by Jonathan Bachman … Our bodies run with ink-dark blood. Blood pools in the pavement’s seams. Is it strange to say love is a language Few practice, but all, or near all speak? … ETERNITY Landscape Painting It is as if I can almost still remember. As if I once perhaps belonged here. The mountains a deep heavy green, and The rocky steep drop to the waters What is the soul allowed to keep? Every Birth, every small gift, every ache? I know I have knelt just here, torn apart by loss. Lazed On this grass, counting joys like trees: cypress, Blue fir, dogwood, cherry. Ageless, constant, Growing down into earth and up into history. THE EVERLASTING SELF Comes in from a downpour Shaking water in every direction— A collaborative condition: Gathered, shed, spread, then Forgotten, reabsorbed. Like love From a lifetime ago, and mud A dog has tracked across the floor. RIOT 1. Sometimes I feel the Black in my heart like a map made of tar. You need only part your lips to mar what isn’t yours. Can you hold my death in your mind? Can you leave it there? Live- and-let-grieve? I like you. And like you, I move through the days. A dark shape is what my body makes. Good is how I was taught to look, to be, despite what’s done to me. (Woe is me.) To-say-is-to-do is also true. (Woe is you.) This is not the riot. This is reality. It rolls, roils, briefly recoils. It hammers down. We fall, rebound. You chase, we race. You hate, we wait. WE FEEL NOW A LARGENESS COMING ON Being called all manner of things from the Dictionary of Shame— not English, not words, not heard, but worn, borne, carried, never spent— we feel now a largeness coming on, something passing into us. We know not in what source it was begun, but rapt, we watch it rise through our fallen, our slain, our millions dragged, chained. Like daylight setting leaves alight— green to gold to blinding white. Like a spirit caught. Flame-in-flesh…. SOULWORK One’s is to feed. One’s is to cleave. One’s to be doubled over under greed. One’s is strife. One’s to be strangled by life. One’s to be called and to rise. One’s to stare fire in the eye. One’s is bondage to pleasure. One’s to be held captive by power. One’s to drive a nation to its naked knees in war. One’s is the rapture of stolen hours. One’s to be called yet cower. One’s is to defend the dead. One’s to suffer until ego is shed. One’s is to dribble the nectar of evil. One’s but to roll a stone up a hill. One’s to crouch low over damp kindling in deep snow coaxing the thin plume of cautious smoke. One’s is only to shiver. One’s is only to blow. RAPTURE And, on a simpler level, I want you to look up at these things that are happening to Black people, not down—the way you would stare at the sun. —Arthur Jafa It was a stirring and a rising. Like vapor. A gathering up and a lifting off. And then it was a swarm. All the many coalescing as a form unified in its going. Where? Like I said up and off. A rapture. Sometimes the light reversed course, reaching into me. A bright resonance, a flood spilling down. But soon it whorled, spun around, lifting over the trees, over the scraped stone tops of mountains to disappear through a ring of sky. RIOT We live— We live— in my city and yours and on far shores nationless We live— We live— standing risen on solid authority in the light and not quietly We live— morning sun We live— evening come We live— generations hence We live— We live— deep color our heart leaps We live— over and again our heart leaps We live— gold hot bright the line of us never tiring We live—We live.

  3. 4 out of 5

    TW: Free Period Reviews

    Tracy K. Smith’s collection of old and new poems, Such Colors, is a best hits album to attract old and new readers alike. There is a reason why Smith was the Poet Laureate of the United States from 2017 to 2019; she has a way with words and form that make her readers engage in discussions on faith, history, belonging and race. Her use of language and sound echo through complex topics and impactful external sources which range from landscapes to news articles and song lyrics to African American C Tracy K. Smith’s collection of old and new poems, Such Colors, is a best hits album to attract old and new readers alike. There is a reason why Smith was the Poet Laureate of the United States from 2017 to 2019; she has a way with words and form that make her readers engage in discussions on faith, history, belonging and race. Her use of language and sound echo through complex topics and impactful external sources which range from landscapes to news articles and song lyrics to African American Civil War soldiers’ letters and seminal historical documents. Tracy K. Smith pulls inspiration from the world around her, and through the lens of her craft, develops poetry that is both beautiful and thought provoking. One caveat for new readers, this is not a collection that should be read in one sitting. Smith pulls a number of poems from her various prior works and, though reading each section at one go makes sense, the total volume is too long and too dense to reasonably digest in one sitting. There are moments that drag, but even for those who don't feel her work speaks to them, the skill must be respected. As a whole, this collection traces Smith’s stirrings and awakenings as an author into a singular text. Juxtaposing different points in the writer’s career allows the reader to see the breadth of her work and examine how she both grows as a poet and experiments as a writer over the years. Pieces from The Body’s Question are very experiential, looking to specific moments through the lens of specific emotions that emanate from each situation. The predominant sense in this section is of longing in its assorted shades and contexts. The poems from Duende navigate otherness by giving voice to Ugandan wives gifted to rebel commanders, a child killer justifying their crime, and Native American children taken from their homes. Selections from Life On Mars are more esoteric and less engaging for poetry dabblers as Smith expands into space linguistically and topically, then returns to Earth with examination of human atrocities from differing perspectives. Wade in the Water poems show a range of focus from faith and God to the mistreatment of the planet and its people, African American people in particular. There are some truly thought provoking methods and concepts in this part of the collection for readers to contemplate. Riot is where Smith rewards longtime fans with new works and new forms including found poems, palindromes, and epistolary poems. Each of these new works exudes her strengths as a master of concept and craft. Tracy K. Smith is unafraid to explore varied perspectives in her poetry. In “Theft”, she speaks from the perspective of a Native American child taken away from tribe and family and into foster care with other children, she writes, “Each in his own/Now.I have never/Thought to cross from mine to theirs,/But I’ve held my hand inches/From my brother’s back and felt/His heat”. There is such solitude and longing expressed in these lines that the reader can truly connect with the sentiment of the speaker. Later, Smith channels a Daughter of the Confederacy from 1915 as hissing, “Let the silence of threat embolden our approach” (“Suggestion”). The range of voices at times creates discomfort and always necessitates confrontation with the truth of the poem. The level of specificity within each piece makes the world tactile. In “Serenade”, she describes, “I am spinning/So giddily the bottles of beer and liquor and the bags bereft of their ice/Form one great lake of ecstatic liquid”. Not only can the reader envision the dance within this scene, but also feel its jubilation. Emotional descriptions such as this help to define Tracy K. Smith’s approach to visceral moments and expression as a whole. Teachable Moments: If you are looking for a range of works to study a poet’s oeuvre or want students to understand the range that is possible from a singular writer with great technical and linguistic skill, the whole text would be appropriate. Due to the way she navigates historical accounts and notable speeches, selections from this collection could also be used for cross curricular lessons in social studies. For a writing or literature course lacking modern examples, Smith has poems that exemplify classic forms including erasure, villanelle, ghazal as well as those mentioned in the main review. Perspective (speaker), structure, and specificity are all elements for students to analyze or use as a model for their own work. I received an advance reader copy of this book to read in exchange for an honest review via netgalley and the publishers; all opinions are my own.

  4. 4 out of 5

    Wuttipol

    I Sit Outside in Low Late-Afternoon Light to Feel Earth Call to Me Is the world intended for me? Not just me but The we that fills me? Our shadows reel and dart. Our blood simmers, stirred back. What if The world has never had—will never have—our backs? The world has never had—will never have—our backs. Our blood simmers, stirred back. What if The we that fills me, our shadows real and dark, Is the world intended for me?

  5. 5 out of 5

    Rachel

    A dazzling collection of poems that feel urgent and relevant, whether from Smith's work in 2003 or written this year. She brings to life migrants, Black Civil War veterans, factory workers poisoned by chemicals, travelers and so much more. Her verse is simple yet elegant, evocative and fresh. A dazzling collection of poems that feel urgent and relevant, whether from Smith's work in 2003 or written this year. She brings to life migrants, Black Civil War veterans, factory workers poisoned by chemicals, travelers and so much more. Her verse is simple yet elegant, evocative and fresh.

  6. 4 out of 5

    Max McDevitt

  7. 4 out of 5

    Adam

  8. 5 out of 5

    Diamante

  9. 4 out of 5

    Jesse Hassinger

  10. 4 out of 5

    Douglas

  11. 5 out of 5

    Selena

  12. 5 out of 5

    Precious

  13. 4 out of 5

    Crystal

  14. 5 out of 5

    Shannon Grinnan

  15. 4 out of 5

    Jeffrey Parker

  16. 5 out of 5

    Scissor Stockings

  17. 5 out of 5

    Carrie

  18. 4 out of 5

    Elin

  19. 4 out of 5

    Isaurathewriter

  20. 4 out of 5

    Freya Sachs

  21. 5 out of 5

    Roxanne

  22. 4 out of 5

    Janelle Carson

  23. 5 out of 5

    Brina

  24. 5 out of 5

    Jay Moran

  25. 4 out of 5

    Jody Rambo

  26. 5 out of 5

    Matthew

  27. 4 out of 5

    Manaal Siddiqui

  28. 4 out of 5

    Maiamali

  29. 4 out of 5

    Basia

  30. 5 out of 5

    SmithTheTeacher

  31. 4 out of 5

    c.s.

  32. 4 out of 5

    Kristin

  33. 4 out of 5

    jada!!

  34. 4 out of 5

    Marie Fayssoux

  35. 5 out of 5

    Eve

  36. 5 out of 5

    Claudia Davidson

  37. 5 out of 5

    Jenny

  38. 5 out of 5

    Abby

  39. 5 out of 5

    Karen

  40. 4 out of 5

    Lauren

  41. 4 out of 5

    Craig

  42. 4 out of 5

    Dipali

  43. 5 out of 5

    Alex

  44. 4 out of 5

    Dana Sweeney

  45. 5 out of 5

    Erika Gallion

  46. 5 out of 5

    Michelle McGrane

  47. 4 out of 5

    Lauren

  48. 4 out of 5

    Connie Pan

  49. 5 out of 5

    Alexia

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