The struggle at the heart of the collection is one of the reasons these poems are so piercing and why they remain vital and memorable long after reading them. Psalm for Chrysanthemums, whose title prepares us for a song in praise of deadh, offers a vision that is both beautifully achieved and deeply disquieting.Shara McCallum, from the preface
Venus Fly Trap
I can count on twelve hands the men I have swallowed whole:
it’s a record. If you lined them up, I would be done in a minute
and ask for more. There is no name for what happened to me,
except that men came here and did not return to their homes.
On a Saturday, my doorbell rings and I am sprawled on my bed,
awaiting the inmate whose groans will outmatch my screams.
Amaechi is reported missing on Monday. Do you have a towel
I can use while I watch the news? I join the search party, sated
and confident my belly will not spit him out, feigning a frantic
spell. By noon I am licking my lips. The doorbell rings. Come in.