After Sylvia Plath The bushes are laden, draw my blood with their thorns. To find sweetness or at least some nourishment, Find sweetness before
I never got to say goodbye to my daughters. Memory fuzzed. Fell heavy like ripe peaches, rolling into a dark sky. Unreachable. My heart
I shave flour level With a flat butter knife, Drop of water on my wrist. Knead to elastic and satin, Rest dough in a
Reviewed by Dale Cottingham When Brian Turner, poet, editor, holder of fellowships, author of five poetry collections, including the recent The Dead Peasant’s Handbook