The words of the poems, and the poems themselves, cut like sharp knives. They embody a jagged edge, tearing at convention to be sure but also a tearing away of our conceptions of relationships, events, and everyday life.
A baseball game is a baseball game, until hunger steps up to the plate (and the double meaning of “plate” is useful here).
A tree seems just as tree, until you begin to deconstruct it by its rings of age, its squirrel holes, its imperfections.
A pond seems just a pond, until it becomes a metaphor for a graveyard, and a grave.
To continue reading, please see my post today at Tweetspeak Poetry.
Photograph by Lynn Greyling via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.