Risk

Morrison’s controlled and inventive latest (after Beyond the Chainlink) employs a rigid syllable count that she describes as a way to “experience limitation as event, not aftermath.” Most entries consist of two seven-syllable phrases per line, divided by an extra space, which visually manifests as a middle margin or a spine of white that moves down the center of her poems, breaking up thoughts in unexpected ways. Her interest in limitation and control is reflected in lines about calorie intake (“Self-starving as protection/ isn’t only about food”), and Morrison is sharply self-aware about self-imposed restriction: “You want to/ trust that starving yourself seals/ what’s inside you. As safe as/ any fridge’s door. Meaning/ seepage is containable. The containment guaranteed.” The controlled structure of these poems allows for a nuanced exploration of the self, language, and others: “Here are five people/ in line at the ATM/ so separately together—/ requires a vigilance/ easy to mistake for calm.” In another piece, she bridges the gap between her own existence and a panhandler she regularly passes on the street. Through formal restraint, this collection effectively probes the secret pains and constraints all people experience. (Apr.)