I am stuck / as a minnow in a child’s little bucket. / I’m being carried, sloshing, back / to someone else’s mother
grows at an angle / from the earth serpentine moss / adorns its low bent
Three swans spin slowly on the water. I am seated / on the nearby patchy dirt and see / jagged mountains scratch up together.
Opening with hunger and appetite, Took House, an alluringly haunting poetry collection, invites the reader to the table to dip in and out of love, obsession, and what remains hidden.
I never wrote the poem, though I wanted to, / where I wished to steal Stern’s phrase— / “the world at last a meadow”—for no reason / other than to speak again its genius and beauty
In the night what else can you wonder / wide awake besides what a wonder, this pain?
Pray the grime-coated stairway of 1 Scammel Street. Smoke-stained walls and fallen chunks of plaster. The floor we painted cheer yellow.
