From Publishers Weekly
The pun of the collection's title probes a predominating theme: the messy, sometimes angry and frequently euphoric terrain of new motherhood. The first poem, "Bite Me," displays Fennelly's characteristic earthy brashness: "finally I burst at the seams/ and you were out/ Look, Ha, you didn't kill me after all/ Monster I have you." Like Plath minus the lyricism or Sharon Olds minus the sweet aftertaste, Fennelly doesn't flinch from showing the darker side of mothering, not just the can't-see-straight exhaustion and the anxiety of new parenthood, but the fury of both infant and mother: "No one ever mentioned she's out for blood. I wince/ as she tugs milk from ducts all the way to my armpits." The wrath is marched in equal doses by evidence of primal, physical love: "I whispered in her see-through ear/ I'd keep her safe forever-/ I, her first lover." The two middle sections of the collection include poems of place, parents, love, followed by a long, meandering poem that juxtaposes the Bible, miscarriage, teaching writing and the new baby. The book's last section returns to the (stronger) material of parenting and ends on an intentionally mixed note: responding to a commonsensical voice that says infancy, like the pangs of childhood, eventually fade into memory, Fennelly's speaker declares, "Fine, I say, not meaning it. I'll have another."
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Move over, Sharon Olds, and make way, Denise Duhamel! Fennelly is a southern poet who writes of her own female experience as carnally, or, perhaps, incarnationally, as either of those northerners. If she is not as harrowing as Olds, whose reports of interfamilial violence can be hair-raising, or as hilarious as Duhamel, who seems frequently to have no shame, she is hardly reticent. Formally, she favors single poems and sequences longer than two pages, she seldom rhymes or constructs metered stanzas, her sense of where to break a line is as good as the late Denise Levertov's, she writes striking epigrams (e.g., "First Day at Daycare": "My daughter comes home smelling like / another woman's perfume"), and she often proceeds directly from the title into the body of a poem, as if the title were the first line. She writes primarily about the birth and infancy-to-toddlerhood of her daughter, secondarily about the loss of a previous daughter to miscarriage. She puts the physical realities of the mother-child bond--the touches, smells, sounds, and phenomena--into her poems with an ease that overrides queasiness (still, many men may blanch at her frank detail), relaying the experience of motherhood, including the emotional pain of miscarriage, more convincingly and intimately than any other poet who comes to mind. This is awesome, humanely humbling poetry.
Ray OlsonCopyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved
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edition.