Reviewed by Basia Wilson In crafting a poem, any good poet knows to consider the myriad ways a reader may approach their work. Take,
Whose hand is this I hold up to the sun for the glint of the blue oval gem, this eye with no pupil, the
My hands fold and unfold all night, packing until dawn. It’s a ritual— I fill the trunk and the work is undone. Her insults
my mother outstretches in the garden with a thumb through hardened dirt. i study her softness tracing leaflines painted deep into her temples. i