In Wild Heather, we go inside the head of Rathore as lover, as friend, as non-binary human, kin, and yet none of the above, however everything plus more. We are brought into the fold, we watch the cuckold, and we thank the universe for heavy moments for without them, the muse would not be able to animate Rathore, to allow the spindling of poetic births and mutations of witchy proportions. A classic conjuring of Sexton or Tzara’s stream of consciousness writing. All the greats have done it, Rathore no different, following suit and instinct alike.