A daring and intimate new book by the poet and memoirist Nick Flynn, “a champion of contemporary American poetry” (Newpages)

. . . the take from his bank jobs, all of it
 
will come to me, if I can just get him to draw me
a map, if I can find the tree, if I can find
 
the shovel. And the house, the mansion he
grew up in, soon a lawyer will pass
 
a key across a walnut desk, but even this
lawyer will not be able to tell me where this
 
mansion is.
 
—from “Kafka”

In My Feelings, Nick Flynn makes no claims on anyone else’s. These poems inhabit a continually shifting sense of selfhood, in the attempt to contain quicksilver realms of emotional energy—from grief and panic to gratitude and understanding.