Margins
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swarm lure,' takes as its occasion the language of Italian beekeeping. Like Montale's The Pledge,' constructed of motets, each section is a movement in time and presence, a part of the whole comb. This is poetry that can `cry the wagon and its horse tightly up a mountain,' which is to say it matters"—Paul Hoover. "Lure over lore tumbling, head over heels, image and prosody, Laura Walker translates the lushness of fragment. Her poems—hungry, bewildered—are incarnated on memory's body, her mysterious gesture "writing recipes on our arms"—Elizabeth Robinson.