By Martha Zweig
A stellar debut selection of poems conjures up the lifetime of a lady in Vermont's Northeast state.
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A pretty trickery crimps the loose path, ravels us with heat & green lilts in a thicket of squanders, spotty prodigals, tufts underfoot of pink arbitraries & vertigo. Page 9 A WITCH She likes it down in the well. In the circle of day or night light at the bottom of the motionless air at the top of the motionless water, she fluctuates in rings. All anyone knows is she must have followed a stone somebody tossed down there, or else she was one. Page 10 THE HILL Everywhere the mouths of their holes occur, saying, There are other worlds.
We get new maps if anything changes. We're happy, & for the first time in our lives we do not expect to die. Page 39 III A TOKEN DUST Page 41 CURSE OF THE BABIES Lightfooted daddies on splendid adventures, we are your growing sperms who dropped off their tails. Now we suck thumbs & knead the blankets. Now we wallow chubby & dimpled, we curry favor like the underdog, we pump our new knees, we slobber & grab & coo coo & thrive from our tummies & gain. Someone delivered us. We recall nonentity, the fleshless bloodless singleminded shameless dark, & thither we recommend you.
Their eyes their strangest part lead our orange light back into their brains. Page 58 LIVE ALONE I sleep next to nothing, next to nothing sleeps my dumpy body sleeps my mussy head; lettuce head, cabbage head, sleep green, sleep grown, no hurry, sunny breezy bed, clean brown furrow; cat watch a crow, cat catch air, catch shadow, yawn stretch me my dream's tail-end: live alone, get old alone; who'll know, who'll say boo to get a pennysworth of anybody's little life back? Page 59 TAKING HER ON She starts a false fire, it catches my meadow dry & baffled in birds, she hurls false water down my rocks into limpid false pools.
Vinegar bone by Martha Zweig