The man who thrived for fifty years on work he learned at twenty served his country in the war in a munitions factory and burned his lip at break time drinking coffee from a mason jar.What confident precision this is, shifting from declarative to litany:
As fallout rained down on the milk cows, as Strontium-90 was pronounced on the radio and overheard in grocery stores.
This man kept a balance in the bank. (34)
Who tried to kill herself but couldn't die.always with pristine imagery:
Who packed her clothes and waited for the train.
The atomic cattle, like the atomic cat, grew small white stars where the fallout rained on them.This world assembles, is liminal, is kaleidoscopic and angular as the author repeatedly detonates the banal:
Adhesive tape, the last thing added to the bomb.I could simply list the lines that glistened and pierced. I could try to put my finger on the promise of the line, the exact blend of chaos and order that makes this book sing even as it reminds me of the tin, atomic air, the militarization of domesticity, the path we are all locked into, and yet it is impossible to put down. Or at least to put down for long...
A stack of reading notes on yellow paper awaits the healing of my wrist. Meanwhile, I'm going back to Burger. You can find out more the author and text here, and you can read an excerpt here.