Both scalding and beautifully considered, these poems move like something in pursuit, running after us. One blue hour simmers on the stove, steam rising like a slow train up and over the mill line — still-life burnt in coal, black heat, skin cold-split in the third shift. Nothing timid here — no retreat and no stingy reticence. Desire looms large in these poems—these bodies on fire—laced with blood, spit and scars. But what of poppies, of slippers of sorcery? She pictures the man, bright within.
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