The Dream Women Called

 In 2009, my sister Lori released a book of poems, House Where a Woman, which I reviewed in this post from 2012.

Last year, she released her second collection, The Dream Women Called, published by Autumn House Press. You can order a copy at Lori's website, LoriWilsonPoet.com, or from your favorite bookseller.

Releasing a book during a pandemic is not ideal; Lori was invited to poetry readings, but they were virtual instead of in-person. One positive was that I could attend her readings no matter where they were held. One negative was that virtual readings don't lead to many sales (so, you should buy her book!).

As I did before, I want to share a few passages from some of Lori's poems, along with some very brief thoughts. Again, I will warn readers that Lori and I are sisters, and thus my viewpoint is anything but objective.

* * *

When to Wake Is to Head down a Road (page 5). This poem describes the potential found in brightly colored threads, potential that might lead somewhere, but then again, might not. A few words conjure up the sounds and sights of a family gathering:

purple silk under my fingers calming in the chaos of smoke, loud talk, 
        heady smells: turkey, butter, black coffee, olives—

the whole family crowding my grandparents' apartment on Peebles Street—
        silver spoon against china cup, ice in a glass, strike of a match.

* * *

Canna Red and Orange (page 8). A mother considers her daughter's cross-country travels, and asks herself:

If what I feel is more envy than worry,
do I love her less?

* * *

In Annapolis and the Dare (page 9). This poem recounts a summer spent living and working with strangers, and conveys a hope and a longing that are left unsatisfied.

I was twenty years old.
I wanted both to be invisible
and to be seen.

. . . 

It was the summer of the bicentennial.
My boyfriend didn't visit
and back home the family dog died.
I dipped my cupped hand with the rest
into bright summer days;
their hands filled with sapphires,
mine with slippery silt, as if
I'd been tricked. I was
never alone, I was always alone
and that summer, a rough stone
began to rub raw a hollow inside me.

* * *

Afterword: For the Circuit Court Deputy Clerk (page 11). Here, the poet muses on the end of a marriage. (Note: I've messed up the formatting of this poem, but I think this is the best I can do with this blogger tool. Find a copy of the book so you can see it properly formatted!)

Dear Clerk: You take eighteen years of marriage, subtract isolation and cold, divide by a lover, again by a lie. Pack the remainder in a cardboard box and move out. I've been sifting through that box for seven years. You never stop asking how it happened. You never stop redoing the math.

* * *

Empty is Good (page 18). In its first two lines, this poem succinctly describes two widely disparate scenarios:

Empty like a dishwasher ready for loading
or empty like a cupboard and the paycheck spent?

* * *

The Day He Struck the Dog (page 22). This poem is painful to read, as the poet documents a moment that overflows with anguish and regret.

She climbed out of the cab,
knelt in the road with two strangers, their dog,
offered to drive them to their car, pay the vet.
She wanted to erase the anguish on their faces,
the dog's pain,
her own silence.

* * *

Mother Accused of Abandoning Children Turns Herself In (page 35). Some homes are filled with a relentless grind, and with a mother's despair and exhaustion.

Eight years with my kids in that house—
read them books between thin plywood walls,
fed them under dangling wires,
bathed them with hauled water
in the blue plastic tub.
Why am I telling you this—
you've decided what I am.

. . . 

And every winter, the snow came
and the same pipes froze
and the wood ran out.

* * *

North on the Caperton Trail (page 39). The poet observes the instinctive focus of a turtle laying her eggs, and wishes for a similar sureness in her own life.

She didn't retreat, and I tell you:
that day I wanted to be unevolved,
to know in the body, each cell affirming
what I should do.
Fear would be irrelevant,
fault and failure nothing but sound.
I wouldn't care who saw
and I wouldn't need praise or a prize at the end—
only my body's sure quiet 

* * *

My Mother Got a Lot of Things Wrong (page 51). This is one of my favorite poems in Lori's collection. The passage of time allows us to add some good memories to the bad, and we find we can grant each other some grace.

My Mother Got a Lot of Things Wrong

but when I was a kid
and afraid I'd swallow a straight pin,
she didn't laugh—
she helped me make a plan,
something to do with eating bread
(to coat the pin)
then visiting Dr. Hoffmeister.
So that's something.

I can't say I loved her.
But there was that straight pin thing
and the time she bought paint
so I could make a mural on my wall.
Also, the smocked christening dress
for the baby and a few other things
I've had fifteen years to remember.

* * *

I Wish I'd Loved the Bat (page 54). A bat invades the home, and the poet observes the kindness offered during its capture.

I wish I could've loved the bat
the way Mike loved it,
talking softly, crooning really,
to the bat he lifted slowly
and settled in the cage.

* * *

The Horse at Dunkard Creek (page 57). This poem is another of my favorites. After a bleak winter, the poet shares some small pleasures, some small victories.

I put the all-seasons back on the Corolla

and carried the snow tires

down to the basement the same day

instead of hauling them around

on the back seat for months.

What I worried was mice in the wall

turned out to be the refrigerator.

Today, I stood on the bank at Dunkard Creek

and the horse ate from my hand.

Iris swam for sticks as long as

I didn't throw them too far,

and the longer I looked at the water,

the more colors I saw.

* * *

Building the Spring House (page 66). After a morning's hard work, the poet encounters an unexpected delight.

It was midafternoon
when we stopped for lunch and I thought
to close the van, and I'd never seen a warbler
or any bird as perfect as the two—
yellow-green, black-hooded—
huddled in a sweatshirt on the seat.
I don't know why they let me lift them
in the nest of my cupped hands, or why
they made no sound, but rested in the ferns
before they flew.

* * *

I hope you will have the opportunity to hold this book in your hands, so that you can enjoy these poems, and others, in their entirety.