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A compelling collection of poems, Late Self-Portraits conveys an intimate description of lives through a collage of portraits and affliction. Weaving history and the sacred, both intimate and worldly, one encounters a blind Jorge Luis Borges with his mother, a glass confessional in the of Notre Dame Cathedral, Frida Kahlo in Mexico, ghosts, a neurosurgeon’s prognosis, and Marie Laveau in New Orleans. Whether in a field with Joan of Arc, encountering the artist Jean-Michel Basquiat, or having dinner with Hades, these are haunting poems of loss and unearthing, equally bold, personal, and tender.
From Dinner with Hades :
He shows me a birthday cake, candled. My name is written in pomegranate seeds. It’s like vertigo. Just before he seeks to devour, he halts to birdsong-sound of goldfinch, bluebird, hawk, lilting of sparrows. Of whippoorwill and dove. Wings flap, so many wings, a cool breeze as leaves unfurl into a once forgotten green and I am back on earth, held in my mother’s arms.
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A compelling collection of poems, Late Self-Portraits conveys an intimate description of lives through a collage of portraits and affliction. Weaving history and the sacred, both intimate and worldly, one encounters a blind Jorge Luis Borges with his mother, a glass confessional in the of Notre Dame Cathedral, Frida Kahlo in Mexico, ghosts, a neurosurgeon’s prognosis, and Marie Laveau in New Orleans. Whether in a field with Joan of Arc, encountering the artist Jean-Michel Basquiat, or having dinner with Hades, these are haunting poems of loss and unearthing, equally bold, personal, and tender.
From Dinner with Hades :
He shows me a birthday cake, candled. My name is written in pomegranate seeds. It’s like vertigo. Just before he seeks to devour, he halts to birdsong-sound of goldfinch, bluebird, hawk, lilting of sparrows. Of whippoorwill and dove. Wings flap, so many wings, a cool breeze as leaves unfurl into a once forgotten green and I am back on earth, held in my mother’s arms.