Flare, Corona
Edginess, unsettlement, a sense of foreboding: what weather can come to bear and a skillful poet with some thoughts on mortality to share. Jeannine Hall Gailey’s ability to turn it up—or down, thankfully—is what makes reading her work in Flare, Corona a bit like riding out a November gale on a paddleboard. In addition to five other collections of poetry, she’s the author of PR for Poets.
Self-Portrait as Late August Evening
I will be gone soon, and with me, summer.
These warm breezes fleeting; the beauty I have
is the beauty of all things that disappear
before you know you’ll mess them.
Each mood—sultry and scorching, mild and balmy—
changeable as the rise of the moon’s face,
one moment blue over corn fields, another
orange over the tree tops, or red dropping over the sea.
No one loves August—we all long for September,
her sweater sets and the chill of her rain—
though the end always comes, an unwelcome surprise.
Through the still air, the wings of birds rustle the dry grass.
I am waiting, heavy as the apple tree branches weighted down
with uneaten apples, turning the air sweet and rotten.
Reviewed by
Matt Sutherland
Disclosure: This article is not an endorsement, but a review. The publisher of this book provided free copies of the book to have their book reviewed by a professional reviewer. No fee was paid by the publisher for this review. Foreword Reviews only recommends books that we love. Foreword Magazine, Inc. is disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255.
