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Life does not seem real in war, Oksana Maksymchuk tells us, and neither does home. Yet in this world there is nothing more real than this state of the unreal. ‘Nothing,’ as the title of the book tells us, is a subject. Nothing is language and it is madness. It is, in these poems, the act of trying to breathe and speak amid massacre and occupation. It is the digital map that empties our lives and languages. And somehow, as Maksymchuk writes, there is ‘this thorny matter of surviving.’ Nothing to Write Home About subtly attends to the most unsubtle details of war. It’s a powerful achievement, a document of what remains in the cities that no longer exist.