Neck of the Woods

Woolard’s gripping debut opens with and circles a mystery and trauma: “It ends with the house in the sky/ Slamming back onto its acreage. The girl// Inside is not the same girl who lived there in/ The beginning—hide the pieces, where they may be found.” Woolard’s whiskey-soaked Southern landscape has echoes of Oz: “No kidding! A house killed my sister too, I’m telling you. It didn’t fall/ On top of her, no, but it snipped off a little lock of her each day.” For Woolard, houses have transformative power; they can kill you in bad weather or a fire, or they can simply outlast you: “a house is the largest tombstone we make.” The houses in these poems are haunted as their speakers are by memory: “Listen, set/ The turntable’s dusty needle gently on my shoulderblade./ You’ve got me down to my unmentionables.” Woolard’s writing is full of memorable juxtapositions and turns of phrase, among them: “I was asked to show up with a side-dish. I made/ A slaw of my longing” and “whiskey moves through me like/ it’s checking me for ticks.” This debut offers a troubled journey delivered by a voice the reader will want to keep listening to. (Apr.)