Review by Bernadette McBride If memory is “the weight of stones,” as Geraldine Connolly writes in “Aileron,” the situating poem of her latest book
I am grateful, especially to the ones whose names I don’t know and can never learn. Nameless, faceless, I thank you. You cut the
After dark, crossing the Mississippi into Iowa in a black car, your palm opened up to me from the passenger seat and I was