This Insatiable August

by Maureen Clark 

(Signature Books, 2024) 

Reviewed by Isaac Richards

 

Love and loss are the wrong words to describe Maureen Clark’s sharp and delicious debut. Try “rush and push,” “magic, hysteria, melancholy, desire,” or even “a curse, a blessing, a corporeal thing.” Clark’s is a collection of life, “the frantic thing / that looked like living,” and death, like “the body and the red tricycle” found at the bottom of a river. Sex, bodies, family trauma, and God—they’re all here, wrapped up in poems as timeless and eternal as they are grounded in “the violet crush of this messy planet” (76). 

If that’s too much to handle, Clark lets us take it in sections (like oranges, tangerines, apricots or peaches). The book’s first section, “As It Turns Out,” is comprised primarily of love poems addressed by the speaker to their beloved. Section two, “Two-Way Radio,” is devoted mostly to ancestry and family history. Section three, “Thin Hymn,” turns toward God, often in the direct address of the psalmist. Section four, “Surfacing,” weaves these former themes (lover, family, deity) together in a conclusion that simultaneously resists resolution. 

But such categorizing oversimplifies Clark’s point about preferring ambiguity to order. Indeed, all those muses and more can be found in the first poem of the first section, titled, “Most of All a Future.” The speaker declares: “I won’t go to a heaven without sagebrush or mosquito bites or thistle itch.” “I’m not going if there’s no sex. … Real orgasmic sex.” Clark knows that to be human is to “want the splinter so it can be removed.” And yet the poet, in this and so many other poems, longs “most of all [for] a future” as the concluding poems also demonstrate. 

Meanwhile, definition is one of Clark’s favorite poetic techniques. A man is “a quiet island.” “The ear is an erotic instrument.” In two of the most striking poems in the collection, “Getting it Wrong” and “Premature Autopsy,” hands probing a body become a metaphor for life, death, love, and violence all at once. Note this startling description of Andreas Vesalius, founder of anatomy, “in his room with the pilfered body of a woman / recently dead”: 

His hands swim in the messy fluids

mapping her interior places,

muscles in candlelight, the bright knife

glistening in the body’s envelope.

“Even in this soft place I am pierced,” writes Clark in the next poem, for, “Your body in my hands / is a cello.” And yet Clark is careful to occasionally break her readers’ willing suspension of disbelief. Too much intimacy is countered with some productive uncertainty. “These words will embarrass you in public,” the speaker admits in the final poem of the opening section; “You could be anyone as it turns out.” The indeterminacy of the “you” in these opening poems makes them parables not just about love but relationality in general—the “you” is anyone, anything we desire. Clark is pointing, above all, to the ineffable: 

Take this library full of books, 

erase all the words in them. 

This is how it feels to write it down.

Section two begins with a reversal. “It would be interesting to do it all backwards / start out old and grow young,” with “cataracts clearing / before your very eyes.” 

Imagine the startling climax, foreplay after. 

Following looks. Remorse before the sin. Temptation

a dangling leftover.

These lines are carefully composed, climaxing in the center, using a comma to indicate after and thus saving foreplay for the end of the sentence syntactically. Temptation dangles at the edge of a line break, leftover. Following leads looks, just as remorse comes before sin grammatically and prepositionally. It’s really a masterwork that reflects what decades of teaching writing can accomplish. Rereading reveals the rewards of Clark’s craft. 

The second section also contains two marvelous sestinas. They are exemplars of the form and rich with meaning. In one, a rumination on bees, cherry blossoms, and machines describes the way time, whether a single day or centuries, unfolds with a seeming and haunting inevitability. In the other, a grandmother loses her ability to speak after a stroke. 

The children have chosen the word: apricot 

From the big envelope. They are writing sestinas. Now the word: burn. 

They squirm in their seats for the next word. 

Grandma Edith stirs the jam with a wooden spoon. 

Next, they choose gate. 

The thick smell of fruit brings back her ghost.

I’ll let future readers imagine how the author successfully sustains six, six-line stanzas always ending with those six alternating words (apricot, burn, word, spoon, gate, ghost) and then unites them in her delightfully satisfying envoi. It’s one of my favorite parts of the book. 

I take the poems in this section to mean that ancestry and progeny are, themselves, a “two-way radio.” We inherit place, time, tradition, and filial relationships, but we also conjure them in turn through reception and ritual. “The Child is father of the Man,” wrote William Wordsworth in a patriarchal paradox that Clark would surely undo. Clark’s version might be something like this: only a daughter can make a grandmother of her mother. 

I have, of necessity, focused disproportionately on the first two sections of Clark’s book, in part to leave some of the jewels concealed. The thin hymns and psalms in section three talk directly to God, and honestly. “Can you hear me?” “Why would anyone / dare to be a simile for God?” Questions are the syntax of choice for both believers and doubters, as those from religious backgrounds know. Find reverence, “Is there an equal sign for deity?” and accusation: “God, if both of us are lost, / which one of us will lead?” As faith and knowledge mature, “What can I believe now?” Soon, “Heaven is half a memory / from a Sunday School lesson.” These inquiries are enriched by poems in the second section, ones that I haven’t had time to gloss, about Utah, Mormon family history, polygamy, and more. 

Clark moves from certainty or binary toward multiplicity. Notice the shift away from questions: “Instead of one answer, I want many.” Instead of a thin hymn, “This wild hymn.” Faith becomes simple again: “All it takes is a slight movement of air / to bring me to my knees / as though someone is listening.” Clark has made a heaven, in and on her own terms, out of this mud-brown Earth. The voice that wanted a future early in the book continues to hope for something after death near its end: 

    when I take my last breath

    I want a shore to be there, a slap of water

    against my boat, relief as tender

    as my grandmother’s hands.

Even if the speaker promised “I won’t go to heaven” at the beginning of the collection, the concluding image is a welcoming one. “If there is a gate into that sun, let my grandmother guard it.” 

Isaac James Richards is a PhD student at the Pennsylvania State University. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Aethlon, Blue Heron Review, Christianity & Literature, and elsewhere. Find him online at IsaacRichards.com.

 

Monster Galaxy

by Cindy Veach

(MoonPath Press, 2025) 

Reviewed by Carla Panciera

 

Cindy Veach’s newest book, Monster Galaxy, is her most intimate collection to date. It reads like a memoir while making the personal archetypal. It allows for the intimate details of one life to reveal the universal and it reminds us that memories and experiences may individuate us, but they do not make us other.

Veach employs a personal speaker who not only assesses the present, but who also looks back on her past. In fact, the book is organized around the idea of before and after. Before and after the loss of loved ones, or becoming a mother, or historical events like the Challenger explosion or the Summer of Love, and absolutely before the fall of innocence and the startling realizations of adulthood. 

The “before” poems include a life lived watching “Lost in Space,” eating bologna sandwiches, worshipping Twiggy, singing pop tunes into a hairbrush. The poems are time capsules, rich with specific details that evoke an era. Veach’s speaker confesses, “What I remember is never what others remember,” a line that echoes Joan Didion who wrote that her family would come across a detail in her work and tell her it simply wasn’t true. “Very likely they are right,” Didion concurred, “for not only have I always had trouble distinguishing between what happened and what merely might have happened, but I remain unconvinced that the distinction, for my purposes, matters.” What Veach and Didion also share is the ability to make their readers believe their version of the truth. 

The purpose for Veach seems to be to create a world that is full of monsters more recognizable than those in horror films. The opening poem, “A Partial Catalog of My Monsters,” lists such villains as dementia, shame, and aging. Most surprising, and the creature whose haunting is a motif in this book, is The Good Girl: “She’s huge like a dirigible, huge / like the Jolly Green Giant. She can’t pick up a pin, /  can’t make a move without wrecking her house.” This poem also illustrates the poet’s ability to deliver the shared history of myth and then to remind us this is an individual’s journey as well, one that both includes us and focuses with pinpoint precision on an actual person: “One [monster] is Forgetting, the other Remembering // she was a girl waving to her father leaving on a trip / his promise to bring her back little hotel soaps.”

Childhood here is “negotiated” by a girl who confesses at her own birthday party that, “I want to disappear // and be the center of attention.” Even her earliest memories cast her as observer, a child destined to become a poet. What she reveals at times is cinematic, a vividly reconstructed stage set of an era where a father moonlights at the Union Leader as he studies for his BA while “Mom picks the meat / off chicken necks for supper.” 

Veach writes from the after, of course, a place where her father has recently died, where her brother has also died, and where dementia claims her mother. Grief is omnipresent, an invitation to look back and reexamine one’s past and then a reminder of how memory, despite its clarity, recedes and leaves one abandoned in a scene. In “Self-Portrait as Daytime Television,” she writes: 

    It’s like the days sped away and now here I am

    left with the memory of Moriticia Addams twirling her long black tresses.

    It’s as if I lost my baby brother

    the day he toddled into the bees nest and not years later

    after a hundred benders ruined his heart. 

Time is far from linear, these lines remind us. We can’t separate the decades, the moments, even the specific images of one day in the life from all the days that preceded it and that follow.

If the book is part bildungsroman, then the protagonist’s arc hinges perfectly on the poem, “Some Things I Never Told Anyone,” a masterful culmination of the good girl assuming guilt for others’ actions on a family trip to London, and the person she will become: a woman subject to the knife-edge of experience, who sees and feels things so viscerally she has no choice but to try to contain the monsters. Her choice, inevitably, is to confine them to the page. The vacation begins with her insistence on riding a rollercoaster despite her parents’ hesitation, includes her father losing his camera on the Tube and lashing out at his family, and culminates in the speaker toting board games from the car to the hotel room and opening the wrong door where she disturbs a couple having sex. 

    The woman looked right at me

    all those game boxes

    Chutes and Ladders Candy Land Life

    each sharp edge marking

    the tender insides of my forearms.

Veach’s poems are connected stylistically via the repetition of lines and images, and thematically by the idea of loss. The book is part elegy, not only for those people she has lost, but also for the places and images of the past. Grief fragments us, but words, like the gravity that connects the stars, planets, gasses, and dust that make up galaxies, connect thoughts and allow one to move forward, even to see some beauty and some mystery in the world. The speaker says, of her father, “He taught / me falling stars aren’t stars but tiny cosmic rocks burning / up as they hit our atmosphere.” The combination of facts and story, what is real and what is imagined, is omnipresent in Veach’s work.

Ultimately, she does get to say goodbye to her father, one important step towards healing. She learns to accept things about herself even if they aren’t what she might have wished for. She’ll never be shameless, for example; she comes to terms with her invisibility. But ultimately, she steps into her own version of power. Birds, she remembers, came from monsters, but they sing. She celebrates the magic of giving birth to her children. In “Resolution,” she resolves “to find joy in photos of winter / jasmine,” to “take pride in the soup / I made last night. Spicy and flush with shrimp—” and admits, “ I am still blooming.” 

The good girl has become a woman who defies the label of crone, who defies any definition but those she gives herself. Finally, in “Woman Who Swallowed a Python, she writes: “Is there a woman inside every monster or monsters /  inside every woman? What if both things can be true. / A reticulation of wrinkles and collagen, wisdom / and faux pas, fear and ferocity.”

Joan Didion defended keeping a journal this way: “Remember what it felt like to be me: that is always the point.” Cindy Veach’s speaker asserts her unique voice and her sharply examined idiosyncracies, but she also reminds us of the ways in which we are not so different after all. 

Carla Panciera’s collection Bewildered received AWP’s 2013 Grace Paley Short Fiction Award. Her poetry collections include: One of the Cimalores (Cider Press), No Day, No Dusk, No Love (Bordighera), and One Trail of Longing, Another of String (Bordighera, November 2025). She is also the author of Barnflower: A Rhode Island Farm Memoir (Loom Press). The recipient of a Mass Cultural Council Grant in creative nonfiction, Carla is a recently retired high school English teacher from the North Shore of Massachusetts.

 

Diorama

by Sandy Marchetti

(Stephen F. Austin State University Press, 2025) 

Reviewed by Joe Roberts

 

In Sandra Marchetti’s third poetry collection, Diorama, she pulls inspiration from the natural world, visual art, and the work of other poets to craft florid poems that are both elegiac and life-affirming. The subject matter of Diorama is diverse, with some poems focusing on animals, others discussing delicious food, and a few gracefully wallowing in plain, old human longing. And while this might seem an eclectic smattering of themes, that’s largely the point; the collection is a world in miniature, a comprehensive diorama of the many joys and sorrows of living. Marchetti masterfully ties these disparate elements together into a cohesive tableau through her consistent voice, dexterous rhymes, and vivid imagery. 
 
The book’s opening poem, “Shadow,” aptly introduces Marchetti’s technical skill as well as her ability to find beauty in nature, even when that beauty comes with an implicit threat. In the poem’s initial handful of rhymed couplets, we find the narrator out in the woods discovering mushrooms, appreciating the trilling of goldfinches, and reading a sign that states, “Foxes are opportunistic feeders.” So far, so pleasant. But in the second half of this piece, the narrator realizes a fox is watching her, perhaps assessing if it could eat her. As this revelation dawns, the rhymes slip and enjamb, cropping up in unexpected places. The effect is a musical disorientation which mirrors the speaker’s exhilaration at this encounter. “Shadow” then ends abruptly with these foreboding lines: "Hidden to your scruff in the gathering / dusk, I hold and release your stare, // that of a silver-eyed murderer / who smells breath in the air."
 
Many of the poems in Diorama are similar to this opener in both tone and craft. The collection does more than just revel in the threatening grandeur of the wilderness, though. It also enters into conversation with the poetic tradition as Marchetti draws on material from many other poets, such as Anne Sexton, Octavio Paz, and Li-Young Lee. Her dazzling “Refrain” even adopts the rhythm of an old Anglican hymn. 
 
In fact, it wouldn’t be wholly inaccurate to call Diorama a collage of extant work, at least in part, since Marchetti incorporates outside influences throughout all three sections of the book. It should also be mentioned that the dedication for Diorama reads, “for all of the artists I stole from, and for my husband,” and the book has a lengthy list of endnotes crediting all the poetry and artistic works from which Marchetti borrows lines, imagery, and rhythms.
 
Of all the poets (other than Marchetti) who haunt Diorama’s pages, though, none features so often or prominently as Louise Glück, the one-time poet laureate of the United States. To start with, Diorama takes its epigraph, “At the end of my suffering / there was a door,” from Glück’s “The Wild Iris,” a metaphysical poem in which an iris speaks to humanity about the renewal which follows death. 
 
In addition to this epigraph, there are many times throughout Diorama when Marchetti alludes to Glück directly. For example, in the poem “Semblance”:
 
I see in the hue of a winter not yet
gone. The sun slips from stripped
trees and between the irises
 
Glück does not remember
the daffodils, gentle in their clusters,
clutching at the yellows of their throats.
 
A couple playing catch slides
from view; still the diorama
assembles, the scene runs true.
 
It’s also worth noting that this is the first and only time Marchetti uses the word “diorama” within the book. This gives “Semblance” almost the same weight as a titular poem, and it lends special gravity to Glück’s presence therein. 
 
But perhaps the boldest of Marchetti’s references to Glück is found within her poem “The Door,” which appears fairly late in the book. Here, Marchetti inverts Glück’s line which she chose for the epigraph, stating, "I want to say, / this is the end // of happiness. Will / I accept love?"
 
This is a clever and all-too-human response to the narrator’s acceptance of endings in “The Wild Iris” and its eponymous collection. While it might be a comfort to believe that some vegetal rejuvenation comes after the suffering of life, as Glück’s narrator claims, when you actually find yourself at that threshold, it’s difficult to see the end as anything but a loss. 
 
The resignation of Glück’s narrator throughout The Wild Iris requires a surrender of what you are so you might become something else, but Marchetti wants to go on embracing her humanity, even when it comes with sorrow. Several of the poems in Diorama, such as “Ebb Tide” and “Depth of Field,” affirm as much. 
 
Through its loving encapsulation of life’s varied delightful aspects, Diorama stands as a respectful rebuttal to The Wild Iris’ insistence that death is merely the end of suffering. Death, Marchetti contends, is also the end of every knowable happiness. 
 
Marchetti’s ardor for existence also manifests in a key technical difference between her and Glück; Marchetti uses rhyme playfully and with abandon, as I’ve noted, whereas Glück almost always apportioned rhyme with a teaspoon. For instance, while Glück wrote no shortage of poems on the subject of longing, it's impossible to imagine her crafting something so pleasantly rhymed and unabashedly sentimental as these lines from Marchetti’s “All that I can tell from here”:
 
    A map notes you and I
    span 3,000 miles,
    pin to pin; farther
    we have never been.
 
    A valley unclasps
    beyond my hands.
    I anchor my skin
    above the rocks and slide
    in the cooled blue,
    an ache away from you. 
 
The unveiled pathos of this piece, as well as Marchetti’s evident zest for the poem as a sonic artifact, starkly contrasts with Glück’s austere, analytical style. 
 
Despite her fervor for life, though, Marchetti also expounds on impermanence fairly often. Poems such as “Refrain” are stunning presentations of death, transformation, and what gets left behind. This theme is most apparent in what I would call the collection’s crowning jewel, “Triptych,” in which Marchetti imparts these somber lines:
 
    All things
    are migratory—
    leaves on trees,
    feathers molting.
    The geese cannot
    live in their coats
    much longer…
    Their necks wander on
    toward dusk, toward
    time, the endless
    crest of the preserve.
 
Yes, Marchetti is in love with the world and her place in it, and she loses herself in that love through poems like “Of Late,” “County Donuts,” and “Witness.” However, the most beautiful images she can summon are so often tinged with their own ephemerality, as they are in “Triptych.” No matter how much we may love our lives, Glück’s door is one we cannot help but step through, which Marchetti acknowledges through her depiction of the present moment as naught but a transitory preserve.
 
Marchetti drives this point home in the collection’s final poem, “A Swim at Europe Bay Beach in July, Deserted,” which borrows imagery from Anne Sexton’s “Nude Swim.” At the end of this borderline desolate poem, Marchetti writes:
 
    I am convinced now that more
    than anything what we want
 
    is to live forever. No one can
    see us, smashed as sea glass, open—
 
    the ants eating our cherries
    at the shoreline.
 
These concluding lines perfectly encapsulate the overarching tension of Diorama; nothing lasts forever, not even the most beautiful things, and so we suffer. Nevertheless, the ephemeral joys to be found in nature, art, and our relationships with other people make us long for eternal life, even if we recognize that such a life would be plagued with the unremitting agony of loss. 

Joe Roberts is a Salt Lake City poet. In his debut chapbook, Anathema, he speaks from the confluence between sacredness and profanity to find redeeming beauty in a world that can so often feel cursed. Anathema was published by Moon in the Rye Press in 2024, and Joe’s poetry has also appeared in Arlington Literary Journal, Juste Milieu Zine, and the Moonstone Arts Center’s 2024 anthology on human rights. With his free time, Joe writes for SLUG Magazine, takes communion at local coffee shops, and hikes the Wasatch Front with his partner, Brooke.

 

Rough Sea

by J.P. White

(Grayson Books, 2025) 

Reviewed by Erica Gross

J.P. White’s latest collection, Rough Sea, takes us on a cruise with a wise and erudite guide, one who transforms observations of sights along the way, whether otters cavorting on a log, a riverside homeless encampment, or the antics of ravens beside a “growling sea” into a series of vivid and deeply personal poems. White illuminates the world around us, focusing on humans’ impact on the environment, the joys of a love found later in life, and how the intelligence of Nature rivals that of our own. 

Rough Sea resounds with precision, as in “Canoe,” the collection’s opening poem:

I get one more day in September on the fringe

of change and there near the bank, four otters

recline on a log to crack a stash of mussels.

I settle into their savoring without thinking

I should be elsewhere.

The serenity of this moment includes a hard-won, bittersweet insight: “This river light, where otters chirp and bob / and share the feast, must go on without us.” 

White’s awareness of how quickly time passes underscores many of these poems. “Greed” juxtaposes his perception of diminishing expectations with the wonder of a new love. Myriad, unaccountable steps were needed until the connection between the two lovers finally occurred: “I must not have been ready to meet you until I did.” The poem describes their parallel paths: "Then again, how close we were, always, / just missing each other in the same towns, / once living on the same street within a shout."

Eventually, in that mysterious way we can’t quite comprehend, those paths overlap. “If God had told me I had to go back to find you / in some early assignation, I wouldn’t object to the slowness / of looking more keenly at every passing face.” The less time they have together, the more precious it is: "because you are the one I had always imagined / would bring out my greed for more waking hours."

“Regarding Those Lovers Who Meet Late in Life” depicts a less romantic view, to say the least, of such a relationship. “Let us call them two lions circling a kill,” the poem begins, “What lies dead between them is everything.” The partners consider each other’s emotional baggage, as onlookers “watch with wonder and horror.” After enough time, however, their defenses erode: “happily and slowly, they will drink of this.” The poem ends on a hopeful note: "Imagine, from such an encounter, / order will return to the entire kingdom."

White’s poems focus on animals, who appear in alternately wise and hilarious guises. “The Ravens of Mendocino” are “steadier than onions in the ground,” “smart, fearless, faithful to a fault.” In other words, these birds are endowed with qualities we humans value but too often fail to achieve. In “Another Moment,” a small, wild creature inhabits “that corduroy road,” “unsheltered and / ungathered,” living her life on her own terms. And in “Heaven is a Pig at the Fence,” the speaker extolls the virtues of having a pig as a companion: "The world is evermore a sullen face and as you get older / it will see you less, but the pig will always take a gander / and talk freely about this and that."

Immune to the judgements of people, the speaker reminds us, the fact that an animal tolerates our presence is its own reward: “this one piebald pig / with no quit in her for who I am, how I got here, my new limp.” 

Place is key to Rough Sea, and White finds inspiration in unlikely spots. “In a Sea of Trucks” describes a liminal, unnerving location—the vast highway system of America. The countryside, paved and subdued, is forced to accommodate this conduit for consumer spending, the engine that runs our economy: "It doesn’t much matter where you are in Nebraska, Indiana, / North Carolina, Iowa, Kansas, Oklahoma, Louisiana, West Virginia, / once you enter the shipping lane of the American interstate."

Those trucks carry a mind-boggling array of goods: “petroleum and pigs, Fed-X and concrete mixers, / milk and cheese, toiletries, tropical fish, bass boats, / fresh cut flowers, a tank of egg yolks and Red Bull concentrate.” What does this motley collection of merchandise reveal about the desires and dreams of the people who will, at some point, make use of it? Are these items, delivered across thousands of miles, really necessary? The poem asks us to contemplate what would happen if the trucks simply stopped running.

In addition to delivering physical items, these trucks create an uncomfortable, often dangerous environment. White aptly expresses the disorienting experience of driving those slick roads, sandwiched between “semis, one behind the other, / an armada balling hard behind tinted glass [...] / I don’t want to buy another thing / that’s been diesel-tracked across the country.”  

Two poems, “White Nights” and “Long Ago at Lenin’s Tomb,” connect a very different place—Russia—with White’s daughter, whom he adopted from that country. “White Nights” depicts a visit to Russia with his daughter, presumably to show her where she was born and foster a connection with her native culture. The daughter, however, fails to find an affinity for this land she can’t remember: “You see we were there with our adopted daughter / on an in-country tour she never warmed to [...] / She thought her birth country a mistake [...] / Everything confused her.” What she sees exposes a place that seems baffling and threatening: “The night that is the never-ending day,” “How in every village, chickens and goats in a brawl,” “bread lines held by the old ones who never smile.”

“Long Ago at Lenin’s Tomb” opens with another memory of lines:

    The potato and mushroom and garlic line.

    The bread and vodka line.

    The line to stand in to get papers stamped

    to bring home a daughter from an orphanage.

This visit to Russia recalls a time that seems, on reflection, more innocent than the version we see in “White Nights:” “Russia had not yet invaded Afghanistan. / It seemed as if this was a time when war was not / the only ragged coat that could be worn.” The poem ends with a scene of two girls playing with a hula hoop, a foreshadowing of the child he came here to claim.

Athletic and direct, the poems of Rough Sea make the most of diminishing resources. J.P. White reminds us to slow down and appreciate the many moments that make up a life. As he writes in “Morning Miracle,” one of the book’s last poems, “that ending / could be the last beautiful surprise.”

Erica Goss is the author of Landscape with Womb and Paradox, forthcoming from Broadstone Books in 2025, and Night Court, winner of the 2017 Lyrebird Award from Glass Lyre Press. She has received numerous Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations, as well as a 2023 Best American Essay Notable. Recent and upcoming publications include The Colorado Review, The Georgia Review, The Indianapolis Review, Oregon Humanities, Creative Nonfiction, North Dakota Quarterly, Gargoyle, Spillway, West Trestle, A-Minor, Redactions, Consequence, The Sunlight Press, The Pedestal, San Pedro River Review, and South Florida Poetry Journal. Erica served as Poet Laureate of Los Gatos, California, from 2013–2016. She lives in Eugene, Oregon, where she teaches, writes, and edits the newsletter Sticks & Stones.

Auscultate

by Clayton Adam Clark

(Galileo Books, 2025) 

Reviewed by Jennifer Keith

Despite religious dogma to the contrary, Homo sapiens is a bloody punctuation mark at the end of the last word in the last sentence in the last paragraph on the last page in the last volume of the planet’s mega-Brittanica biography. With our impact on the planet, we may have already overstayed our welcome. The truth of humans as an ephemeral, invasive species is all over Clayton Adam Clark’s Auscultate, a collection of 38 poems from Galileo Press.  

The title refers to the act of listening to the heart with a stethoscope, an intimate diagnostic exercise that involves both touch and hearing. The imperative form is an invitation, or perhaps an order. Though hearts can signal sentiment, the heart of this book, arranged in four “chambers,” is anatomic, not emoji. Clark’s use of Latin and medical terms create a useful distance. While Auscultate offers glimpses of deep personal pain (the death of a friend’s mother inspires a number of poems, including the title piece), the book doesn’t ugly-cry.

The heart has two ventricles and two atria, and Clark’s poems are full of bifurcations, especially the dichotomy in choosing one impulse over another. Clark is deft at showing how those fateful binary decisions reverberate in other lives—or literally end them—for humans and other life forms. 

Those other life forms, Clark’s poems remind us, insist on taking up physical space. Encounters with nature become crises, hinges between brutality and mercy. Humans strike back at other species with pitchforks, tennis rackets, and neurotoxins or crush them against white drywall. Even a moment of pity for a worm besieged by ants in “Firebreak” is literally poisoned. In “Mousing,” compassion degrades into a practical numbness—having a heart is hard when modern life’s distractions are so ready to relieve you of the task. 

Speeding motor vehicles (“glass-and-metal crypt[s]”) compress time and force disastrous decisions by humans and other species. In “The Missouri,” a car-crash survivor makes a split-second choice between two fates and in “Flight Theory,” Clark’s driver is recalibrating fight or flight impulses in himself facing a charging dog while acknowledging the mutilation of a deer by a charging automobile.

    […] But you’re still

    surprised how far you must drive

    to find the roughed-up pieces

    and the head upturned on

    the shoulder, as if it never saw

    anything but ahead, or even if

    you can find time for second thought,

    you haven’t the space for change.

The driver in “Attrition” slows down on the road to his mother’s house so that if a deer must die, it won’t be by his car. But another driver doesn’t: "someone who still needs / the yellow sign with a bounding cartoon / buck to perceive their hazard."

 

Technically, the poems are heterogenous. Clark leans into iambic lilt and full-blown sonnet form on occasion, but it’s clear he lets each piece be what it wants. Both his free-verse and formal poems feel natural. He’s not shoe-horning his meanings into form in poems such as “Caprinae,” (a stealthy sonnet), “Figure II,” and others. 

Likewise, Clark’s free verse mostly avoids deconstructing for the hell of it, even if, in spots, the abstraction feels a little forced, such as in “Sleepwalk Mannerisms.” He’s taking cues from Francis Bacon, the subject of several of the ekphrastic poems in Auscultate. Clark’s visions of Earth’s human occupation, in all its meaty grotesquery, are dashed out on the page with the color and energy of Bacon’s expressionism.  

Physically, the book is curious. The cover art is colorful and oddly cheery, while the back cover includes a quote that hints what kind of “heart” is explored within. But there aren’t any blurbs, which is surprising. Most of the comprising poems have been published in journals and it is hard to imagine Clark’s work evading the eye of accomplished poets, whose words on the back cover could help get the book into more hands. 

In auscultation, the part of the stethoscope that touches the skin and transmits the sound is called the bell. The poems of Auscultate reverberate, toll, and warn. What flows through the book’s four chambers is warm, sticky—here: fire-bright with oxygen; there: dusky and choked dark without; everywhere: an indelible, brilliant stain.

Jennifer Keith’s poems and reviews have appeared in Sewanee Review, Able Muse, The Free State Review, Fledgling Rag, Best American Poetry 2015, Sugar House Review, and elsewhere. Keith was a finalist in the 2021 Erskine J. Poetry Prize from Smartish Pace. A chapbook, Truant Season, came out on Apathy Press Poets in 2022, and her first full-length book of poems, Terminarch, was chosen by David Yezzi for the 2023 Able Muse Book Award. She lives in Baltimore, Maryland.

Laughing in Yiddish

by Jamie Wendt

(Broadstone Books, 2025) 

Reviewed by Rebecca Ellis

Laughing in Yiddish, the second poetry collection by Jamie Wendt, brings an entire world of immigrant history vividly to life. Wendt uses sure-footed lyricism and deeply evocative imagery to tell the story of Jews living in a vibrant Russian shtetl, enduring pogroms and massacres and finally escaping to a new life in Chicago. She gives us, generously, the very real stories of street peddlers, grandparents, and great-grandparents, the sounds of early Chicago, the urban renewal that remade Chicago, and through it all the people finding strength through tradition and memory to make a new life after loss.  

Wendt uses a variety of formal and informal poetic forms to carry contemporary and historical voices, threading together the present and its past. The poems take risks, using ekphrastic poems, ghazals, pantoums, an ode, and even a triolet to build a nuanced and compelling history. They navigate that history from women working in a cigarette factory or at a spinning wheel, to the pogroms and massacres that the poet’s own ancestors survived in Lithuania, to a contemporary mother interrogating the past in order to build a world for her children. 

The opening poem in this collection, “The Guests,” brings ancestors into the present, giving them like a gift to her children, moving simultaneously “toward the past and into the present” within the context of the Jewish celebration of Sukkot. The poem sets the stage for the entire book, everything framed in preserving people and tradition, and doing it in a frame of richly rendered and memorable poetry.

In the poem that gives the book its title, “Laughing in Yiddish,” the difficulty of leaving one place and going to another, without losing the past, is seen through the eyes of a recent immigrant:

    Other women trained themselves not to follow 

    Lot’s wife’s gaze, not to look back at destruction.

    Why witness the mass of corpses again

    and the remains of a lost world? I tried leaving behind 

    the tall wooden shul, tried not to look back at burning cypress.

    I tried laughing in Yiddish in Chicago.

She gives equally convincing voice to the city itself as it changes under her feet. In “The Eisenhower Expressway Speaks, 1951” the highway tells its own story of coming to life, and how it remakes the city:

    Boys wrestle in the pit

    of me, a playlot 

    after their playground is torn down. 

    Journalists call them morons,

    vandals, and hoodlums, but I like

    their company,…

    After summer storms,

    I turn into a brown river.

    Boys bring rafts,

    float through my stalled construction

    like a vacation cruise. 

After that initial phase of construction, witnessed by the boys, the city, and again the boys, all feel the impact. The moving of a cemetery to make way for the highway is told in visceral, unforgettable detail, even to the highway’s final point of rest:

    The Near West Side sweeps 

    its sidewalks free of otherness

    for me. Free of poor immigrants

    and exiled refugees

    who move North or farther West

    when I intrude, slam the landscape,

    so deafening, so white handed.

    As crews shovel, they excavate and lift

    dead bodies from under my skin.

    I pause patiently, partly severed

    as a cemetery relocates 

    for me. Then workers lie me back down, 

    smooth me out for miles

    with shattered family fortunes 

    directed elsewhere. 

    After the next storm,

    I cough up bones 

    and the boys play

    fetch like dogs. 

The historical depth and range of these poems is riveting. As the woman narrator in “Laughing in Yiddish” shows, the past and present exist in the same layer, informing each other. Personal histories that have been lost, or only partially told, or suppressed are brought into the present with precise language and immediacy. 

Form and language reinforce each other—a poem about the emptying of Jews from a Russian village is told from the viewpoint of the children and in the form of a triolet, providing a chilling contrast. In another poem, about a 1903 massacre in Kishinev, the lines are laid down straight, spaced evenly, resolute, just like the person doing the work of lining up the bodies described. Here is the opening of “Someone Had to Line Up the Bodies:" ”someone had to line up the bodies // connect shadow to shoulder to shadow // patterns of devastation for the photographer."

The massacres included in these poems are not just historical backdrop for the people in the poems. They are personal fodder for the poet’s own experience of family and self; the tragedies are interrogated and kept under a light in order to inform the present. The poem “Kuziai Forest, Lithuania, June 29, 1941” begins:

    Where death is 

    quick, there is

    little story. Pit

    by victim shovels.

    Dig your own.

    700 Jews

    facing the firing

    squad, a mass

    grave, easy to miss,

The poem reveals, in a way that reports or even photographs after the fact could not, the simple courageous acts taken to preserve and protect a sense of self.

    far from a forest cry, 

    a ring of shots, 

    tree rings,

    wedding rings

    swallowed 

    when the time came.

And those acts come forward in history to sit with the poet, informing the act of remembering, and of perhaps creating a poem about it all. 

    Sit under a blood

    tree with poems

    on a nice breezy day

    and not even know.

    Not even know how to 

    have a last thought.

Even carrying that heavy history, the poems propel the reader forward. The easy mastery of form shows in the ekphrastic poems (from paintings by Marc Chagall to woodcuts by Todros Geller), the skillful use of repetitive forms such as the pantoum and ghazal and triolet. This sense of craft shows even in the subtle but very precise selection of language. In “Interview with Papa: The Miscarriage,” an intimate re-imagining of a miscarriage, note the word "corse," which carries both the sound and sense of "coarse" and the literal meaning, archaically, of "corpse." This careful tension with craft and language lifts the tragedy within the poem.

    They were not supposed to talk about it.

    No one did. 

    So, I fill in the blanks— 

            In 1961, in the large bathroom 

            in the house her husband built,

            a young blond woman bends  

            over thick corse blood.

            Two toddler girls scratch at the door, Mommy?

            Or maybe the girls play with paper dolls down the hall.

            Maybe no one else is home. 

            Maybe the mail carrier drops letters onto the mat

            while her body cramps, 

            pulses outward. Little

            slippery thing. 

In the final poem, Wendt comes full circle from her opening poem, again tying generations together. Remembering another grandparent, she writes, "I will record your voice here. // I will keep you. Let me tell you a story." And she does. Reading this collection, I felt a little bit like that Chicago expressway under construction, lifted up in order to look—really look—at every unique life that had been in that path, and laid back down, gently, my mind lit up with the histories, and singing with their language and images. 

Rebecca Ellis lives in southern Illinois. Her poems can be found in About Place Journal, The American Journal of Poetry, Bellevue Literary Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, Calyx Journal, and Crab Creek Review. She edited Cherry Pie Press, for 10 years publishing poetry chapbooks by Midwestern women poets.

 

Helen of Troy, 1993

by Maria Zoccola

(Scribner, 2025) 

Reviewed by Katherine Indermaur

In Maria Zoccola’s debut collection, Helen of Greek mythological infamy is recast in the humid glow of rural Tennessee. Caught in 1993 between second- and third-wave feminism, this titular Helen of Troy charges in with a caustic, hilarious, and unmistakable voice dynamic enough to drive the entire book. Watching Jurassic Park, she rhapsodizes:

    i was cheering that damn

    lizard on while it chased down all those folks with their

    miserable problems and unhappinesses and inane little 

    cruelties shared over the dinner table like it’s amazing how

    you spent thirty dollars on blue jeans instead of getting 

    the vacuum fixed it stomped them flat like good night like

    sweet dreams and sayonara 

These persona poems encompass the story of a woman reinventing herself through Zoccola’s reinvention of classic myth, reminiscent of other mythological contemporizing by women like Paisley Rekdal’s Nightingale, Anne Carson’s canonical Autobiography of Red or even Madeline Miller’s bestselling novels Circe and The Song of Achilles.

Myths give us approachable ways into our culture’s narratives and the narratives of our time. As Roberto Colasso wrote in The Marriage of Cadmus and Harmony, “Myths are beautiful muddles and wonderful mirrors in the tangled funhouse of literature where we might glimpse ourselves once more, again and again.” Because we use myths to continually glimpse ourselves, to remake mythological figures as Zoccola does in Helen of Troy, 1993 is to layer and entangle personal endeavors of meaning-making with the broader arc of storytelling that is human history, and women’s place in it. 

Traditionally, Helen of Troy is a tragic and hapless figure. In the myth’s prevailing version, the Trojan War begins when Helen—the most beautiful woman in the world—is abducted from her home and husband in Sparta and taken to marry the Trojan prince Paris. The tragedy does not begin there, however. Helen is conceived when Zeus, the king of the Greek gods, takes on the form of a swan to rape human Leda (famously depicted in Yeats’s poem “Leda and the Swan”). Greek myth is full of women like Leda and Helen, pawns in the games of men and gods. In the 2024 New York Times article “The Women of Greek Myths Are Finally Talking Back,” Alexandra Alter writes, “Female characters [of Greek mythology] have either been relegated to the fringes, or filtered through the male gaze, depicted as helpless victims, sexual objects, and war prizes. … it makes sense that women are excavating ancient stories and giving new life to female characters whose perspectives have been elided.” Zoccola’s Helen of Troy, 1993 is an assertive part of this movement to vocalize and introduce new agency to these ancient female figures, though it does not require previous knowledge about Greek myth to enjoy the contemporary narrative it presents. 

The best way to introduce the book’s humorous and personable approach might simply be with a litany of its titles: “helen of troy’s new whirlpool washing machine,” “helen of troy catalogues her pregnancy cravings,” “helen of troy avoids her school reunion,” “helen of troy cranks the volume on ‘like a prayer’ in the ballet studio parking lot,” “helen of troy runs the station wagon into a ditch,” and “helen of troy reigns over chuck e. cheese,” among others. This tremendous and entertaining debut manages both erudition and approachable ingenuity across its 68 pages.

Amid its Southern setting, Helen of Troy, 1993 triumphantly sings with warmth and wit. Here rural Appalachia is smothering, inescapable—much like the old plot points of myth. In “helen of troy makes peace with the kudzu,” Zoccola writes:

    i walked out into the mass of it, boots

    to my knees against the coiled mines

    of copperheads, my mother behind me,

    watching the sky for a white spread

    of wings. i grew my whole life in a house

    death longed to touch with one soft finger,

    and when i looked out at the building wave,

    i thought, do it.

Here Zoccola complicates the assumption that the women of Greek mythology were helpless or uninteresting simply because things kept happening to them: they got married off, they got raped, they got pregnant, they got murdered. This Helen has a dynamic relationship with fate—do it, she dares. It is less what happens to Zoccola’s Helen that makes her interesting—a lackluster affair that ends in a Perkins restaurant, a daughter’s friend’s birthday party at a Chuck E. Cheese—and more her own psychic vitality.

Helen of Troy, 1993 insists on the storytelling of the overlooked. In the book’s opening poem, “helen of troy feuds with the neighborhood,” helen declares—no, demands—“i want you silent. / i want you listening to me.” The book’s most enchanting passages run away with the ecstasy of their own Southern song to further demand such listening. “helen of troy runs to piggly wiggly” croons:

         

         … beloved land of madonna on the speakers. country

    of women with cursive lists. everyone i’ve ever known nurses

    their children from these shelves, pushing loads of accreting weight,

    everyone i’ve yet to meet. i high-step through the aisles,

    nursemaid to bread loaves, coupons purse-holstered and waiting.

    sing, muse, of the manager’s special, two-for-one on yogurt cups…

This synthesis of highfalutin ode with the Piggly Wiggly-quotidian produces not only the pleasure of surprise, but the joyous realization that good storytelling is less a product of plot than of voice. Zoccola’s Helen emanates an insistent joie de vivre that churns right on through the plot of her life, no matter how uninspiring it may at first glance appear. 

The book not only gives voice to Helen, but to the women of the neighborhood in a Greek chorus-esque crown of sonnets interspersed throughout. These poems color in the landscape around a fictional Sparta, Tennessee, and provide some of the context for the greater story at work in Helen’s family. In “the spartan women discuss helen of troy,” the collective explains, “a girl was born who was not a swan. / thick-boned, earth-bound, she looked every minute / over her shoulder for the real life / she was promised, but her neck was too short / and she could not see it.” Though Helen could not see it, the reader now can.

Throughout the collection, Helen wrestles with this lack of control she, a nineties suburban American housewife, has over the trajectory of her life. See the unwieldy nature of “helen of troy catalogues her pregnancy cravings”: 

    bags of gummy sharks. ice cream, like a lot of ice cream,

    cartons of fudge ripple i pound in one sitting

    with a spoon like a dirt mover, scoop scoop

    down the hole, layers of white ounces plugged

    right into the skin, who was that one wizard in salem

    they squashed to death in a tofu press,

    giles somebody, they just kept piling it on,

    and that sucker smiled his bluebird smile

    and asked for more. cheesecake. jelly rolls.

Even the direction of the poem’s garrulousness seems to ultimately slither out of Helen’s grasp. There is reason to rejoice for this slipperiness, though. How else would we get to “that one wizard in salem” and the other figures populating Helen’s inner life? How else would we relinquish, finally, our own desires and simply “listen”?

Helen of Troy, 1993 is a disarming and marvelous book for every kind of reader, from Greek mythophile to those of us looking for a laugh. Zoccola’s poetry renders a joyride of a character out of an old myth and, like the joyride Helen takes just before wrecking the family station wagon, “why shouldn’t your toes itch / on that pedal so sweet / and easy you might as well / be that sugar from the movies?” Have fun reading about one of the world’s great tragedies? Per the dare Helen herself makes, do it. 

Katherine Indermaur is the author of I|I (Seneca Review Books), winner of the 2022 Deborah Tall Lyric Essay Book Prize and the 2023 Colorado Book Award, and two chapbooks. She is an editor for Sugar House Review and the recipient of prizes from Black Warrior Review and the Academy of American Poets. Her writing has appeared in Ecotone, Electric Literature, New Delta Review, Ninth Letter, the Normal School, TIMBER, and elsewhere. She holds an MFA from Colorado State University and lives in Fort Collins, Colorado.