It's a rare writer who can talk about Stalin and suburbia with equal facility, but that's what Shelley Puhak has done. In her book of poems, STALIN IN ARUBA, there's a satisfying element of voyeurism, of being let in on intimate moments in others' lives. The book concerns itself silmultaneously with the ordinary: "Who can stop thinking of the small things? Dishes against sink, small white feet against chilled linoleum?" (Wars) and the extraordinary, as in her listing of self-immolations, "Monk Quang Duc, the unflinching lotus on the busy streets of Saigon." (Torch) We peek in on the ordinary moments of extraordinary people-Pope Leo X, Lenin, and, of course, the titular character, Stalin. Puhak excavates, lovingly, carefully. From the earth under a suburb where, " ...nothing is allowed to die..." (The Science of the Suburbs) to the deep recesses of the heart where the real truths lie, as in "Nadya to Stalin, 1925," the imagined response of Lenin's widow to Stalin's factual threats of blackmail. But the greatest miracle of this little book is how Puhak digs into and then condenses a broad spectrum of history and humanity and reveals the why of human history repeating itself. "It makes sense that we can live with a thing like war," she writes, "when we have been living with our families so long." (War) Throughout, Puhak's writing is smart and accessible, and these are the kinds of poems that can be read again and again, each time yielding some new understanding.