At first this book feels like (merely?) a collection of portraits and childhood memories, but as it progresses the reader becomes more aware of Joseph’s careful placement of images and their growing resonance. About midway through it’s as if the poems surface from the depths of memory and become more overtly grounded in the world of accountability. There’s a moment in the poem “Señora Williams” where the book just takes off for me, and nearly every poem that follows—“Talking to Marilyn,” “Screen Test,” “Higher Education,” and “The White People Next Door” are among my favorites—maintains this level of complexity and intensity.
Señora Williams banged
that ruler three more times,
harder each time until Teresa
grabbed it, broke it, yelled
¿”como se dice “bitch”?,
her accent perfect in anger.
And here is the conclusion of “Talking to Marilyn”:
They regret letting me watch, I know it,
so I leave that storefront séance
quietly, taking my doubt with me,
my only chance to find out what becomes
a legend most ruined by a skepticism
strong as the harsh glaring light
that hits whenever I leave a movie’s dark comfort,
trying to make sense of day.