I don't make much effort on TOA when it comes to reviewing poetry, fearing of course that I'll make a fool of myself if I try too hard; I'd rather not have so much on the line. I noted two thoughts from this short collection - that an illness with many remedies almost certainly has no cure, and that some old possessions have the quality of a long-lost person seemingly embedded within them.
Constance by Jane Kenyon (November 2020)
I reread three poems - "Biscuit", "Pharaoh", and "Gettysburg: July 1, 1863". The latter was my favorite ("sensational", I drooled in my book notes) and lucky for us all, it's been reprinted here.
