Now You Can Join the Others

In her incisive second book, Silverman (Houses Are Fields) dives headlong into the perils, pleasures, and mundanities of marriage and motherhood. At moments, one’s partner might be a beautiful mystery: “I ask if you like peanuts/ and you say you love peanuts, and it’s as if we’ve just met// and are fools for each other,” while at others, sadness between the couple is described as “looser// than the slumped brown bird I eased the stroller over/ so our toddler wouldn’t see.” Silverman depicts grief as a constant companion over many years, stitched into the fabric of one’s life: “I remember my mother’s shape in the darkness/ like a pattern, sew it to the quilt, dip the stitch, pull.” Though many of the poems feature a world-weary tone and a kind of quiet desperation, Silverman articulates an appreciation for everyday dependability that is placidly moving: “The moon is an old symbol. It follows us/ down every block like a dog, and is dumb/ as a dog, and as patient, and loyal, and willing.” With an understated confessional tone, and a musical, mellifluous style, these deceptively direct poems build to a visceral crescendo. (Nov.)