Some parts of Prodigal were amazing, but other parts were rather disappointing. I loved all of the New Poems in Prodigal, as well as most of the selections from Fire in the Conservatory and The Selvage, but a lot of the middle work (though not all) ended up feeling mundane, almost proasaic (and occasionally prosy) to me. Gregersons's mode is largely spare and restrained, but in some places that has the effect of reading almost like prose. This is especially jarring in several poems that take violence head-on, since the restrained spareness also contributes to a feeling of distance. It's almost impossible to tell what is historical, what is personal, and what is fictional--which is interesting, but makes the reading experience of graphic violence particularly odd as we wonder where each story came from. "Safe" and "The Woman Who Died in Her Sleep" are particularly subject to this effect.
At her best, like in "Ceres Lamenting", Gregerson is smart and ties the part and present together with a lot of effectiveness.--as when we have to get to the second part of that poem to even be certain how this is a story of Ceres. In other cases, she seems to be reaching for similar energy, but doesn't quite muster the luminosity needed to grasp it. Definitely worth reading, and your mileage might vary on her fairly simple style as well as her subject matter, but not among my favorite recent reads.