I love this wonderful, wonderful book of poems. Some of the poems have an old movie, glittery slow motion to them, like these stanzas from “Wherever You Hang Your Head”:
I can see the stripes
of light across my father’s face,
the blinds angled behind him, foothills
ragged through the slats
like a picture torn in strips
then reassembled. My sister
has her knees drawn up
beneath her on the chair and eats
a bowl of olives. Now
she is laughing into her napkin.
Isn’t that the way memory works? The little clips we replay, the odd details no one else remembers. The way we can never go back there.