Reviewed by Angela Gregory-Dribben I imagine Anna Scotti observing from within a snow globe without the snow but with “the sun…beating glitter from the
Stinging over and over like the miracle of loaves and fishes, they snarl out of their aerodrome, hell’s own angels with little venom sacs.
A Blue Morpho, sable and teal, velvet powder flocked on pinned, flightless wings. A monarch, burnt umber and ebony, preserved in a permanent hover.
When the dead speak to me, I ask them to be patient while I mark time in the color guard, legs starched-stiff as my