By Michele Glazer
Right here, the writer confronts the slipperiness of language and notion as she probes average procedures - the lives of bugs, the uncertainty of affection and the deaths of humans. The poems negotiate among wish for whatever irrefutable and an uneasy bedrock of paradox.
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Extra info for Aggregate of Disturbances (Iowa Poetry Prize)
The dead man I sit beside who keeps the house up until all hours. How late is that is a question. That he is still is to be expected and that he is still John is a surprise. At the edge of his lip I see a puddle of saliva tremble that would fall were he to move. It is too obvious to mention that moving is beyond him. And the thing will slip of its own generative mass with a viscosity that promises it will lengthen as it falls, suture a wet lip to a clean shirt. The glistening extension snaps. But before that my tongue is close enough to touch it.
Yet I love pattern as I love a promise, to think that what will follow is something I can know. How ring for ring the oak grows. And I in felling it repeat the blows. Narcissus, pattern weds us. ” She answers no. Real Life # : Vagaries How it began — Invented in the paroxysms of habit by unmilked women and pale men. That existence was invented? Who invented a language to make existence felt? Babbling in so many tongues like toads on a summer pond, deep evening, the sky going under to the night.
Constructed of consequence and as if that’s not enough he can see it in the garden, in how the blossomburdened floribunda understands extravaganza, post- mortem. Woman Sitting for a Portrait at a Warehouse Sale —— Sweeping her broad here, narrow there, feathering her brow with an astonishment of charcoal, giving her mouth motive, now tearing the gloss into likeness and not. Her face is shut, her lines are slim. Her lines are scratchy, at drifted angles like beachtown shanties after the storm’s swept in.