This book is extraordinary. The clear pain is controlled, hammered into art, watered with irony and complexity. I don't remember reading a book of poems that moved me in its entirety as much as this one does. At times it was difficult to continue reading, and I'd set it aside for a few days. The accomplishment here is wondrous. Here's an example:
She has called this the book of her career. In other words, it's all material (the last line of a William Goldman novel).Not Going to Him
Minute by minute, I do not get up and justgo to him –by day, twenty blocks away;by night, due across the city'swoods, where night-crowned heron sleep.It is what I do now: not go, notsee or touch. And after elevenmillion six hundred sixty-four thousandminutes of not, I am a stunned knowerof not. Then I let myself picture hima moment: the bone that seemed to surface in hiswrist after I had held my father'shand in coma; then up, overhis arm, with its fold, from which for a friendhe gave his blood. Then a sense of his presencereturns, his flesh which seemed, to me,made as if before the ChristianGod existed, a north-island baby'sbody become a man's, with that pentspirit, its heels dug in, those time-wornheels, those elegant flat feet;and then, in a sweep, calf shin knee thigh pelviswaist, and I run my irisesover his feathered chest, and on his neck,the scar, dollhouse saucer of tarnishset in time's throat, and up to the nape and thendive again, as the swallows flyat speed – cliff and barn and bankand tree – at twilight, just over the surfaceof a sloping terrain. He is alive, he breathesand moves! My body may never learnnot to yearn for that one, or this could bea first farewell to him, a life-do-us-part.Sharon Olds