This was my pick for July 2014 for the Rumpus Poetry Book Club. Some fragments from my mini-review of the book:
The centos echo each other, particular images and words cropping up again and again in the poems so often that they begin to form a fugue--both in the musical sense, with the development and interweaving of phrases and subjects, and in the psychological sense, as the poems repeatedly play with notions of loss of identity and flight into unfamiliar landscapes.
Both the loss of self and the sense of strangeness are evoked through the vast variety in the sources from which the poems draw. I didn't count, but I'd guess Muench pulls fragments from at least 150 different poets writing in a wide array of languages and eras. The cento form itself dismantles certain ideas about ownership and authority--as Muench writes, "I learned / in the notebook lined by you, tree / & by you, sentence / that nothing was mine." By including such a range of times and tongues, the form also functions as an ark, an archive, a craft that preserves words, as Marianne Moore said, like a "collection of flies in amber."
In Muench's book, these collections are part mourning, part memorial, part exhumation or even resurrection. As human and wolf mingle in the poems--the book is filled with ambiguous bones and tongues and ears, but also distinctly animal muzzles and paws and fangs--the centos reminded me of Dario Robleto's explorations of death, loss, and survival. Like his artwork, Wolf Centos is all about the materials: in both, fragments of the past are assembled and arranged to help us think about what persists beyond the end of any individual life.