The Fissures of Our Throats flirts with the desire to recall and translate the past into some new, possible story. The poems resist and embrace lyric, but welcome a seeing into and through. There is flesh here, even romance, doubting and restless. Things can be told or surmised, but not settled on. There is a reluctant willingness to reveal, to misunderstand these words as memoir. To have fun in the darker corners.
Lions lived outside, / we walked among them. / Some stayed / close enough to smell the rotting vines / and made their camp.