White Doe
Phanopoeia, explained Ezra Pound, is “the throwing of an image on the mind’s retina” on the “visual imagination.” When she flits between wolves and space trash, glass eyes and does and “bruised skin of milk,” Maria Williams calls forth that word—a heightened sense of taking it in from the passenger’s seat. A Pushcart Prize nominee, Williams lives in Western Massachusetts.
SEABED
there is a man whose job is to lead me through the mortuary
to lay his hand over the knob of my shoulder and weigh me down
fluorescents flicker, a steel table shines
under dad’s arching spine
take your time, the man says, and I wonder how
many nights I’ll have to stay here, how many years
there is the body, empty, the scar
of the man’s palm on my shoulder
and the light, green and rakish
through which I watch him turn and walk away*
shall I kneel on the floor, dad
and raise my eyes to that light?
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.
