I have a friend in Philadelphia who is a poet. Best friend. Best poet. Her work is fierce, powerful, and cuts to the bone. Now she has a new book, laser-focused on war. Our endless war, pick your own name. These poems are not an anti-war demonstration, they’re a detonation. On Sunday I watched a Zoom reading from Larry Robin’s Moonstone Arts in Philly, and afterward sent a message of praise and thanks. I mentioned that I was sure I’d ordered the book as soon as I saw the publication announcement, but could find no actual evidence that I’d done so. I asked her to suggest how I might inquire.
This morning, wanting the book as soon as possible, I ordered it from the press. This afternoon I got a message from my friend saying that she’s gifting me with a signed copy and will mail it Tuesday. By 5 PM the mail had come and the book was in the mailbox: yes, I’d ordered it last week. Now I will have three copies. One for me, one for our daughter Johanna, and one in reserve as a gift. I feel there’s a message there.
J.C. Todd wrote Beyond Repair. Able Muse published it. If I had the wealth of our space cowboys I would put a copy in every mailbox in the country, packaged with a big bottle of aspirin and a fifth of single-malt Scotch.