The title piece presents a phenomenology of being a poet, an immanent exploration of its eidos zoe, as the speaker on her morning walk probes the limits of her own interior through notes to self, draft haikus, translations of Rilke and Inge Christensen, speaking things that can't be written (and yet of course are written), and so on. It's something like Benjamin's flaneur wandering through Paris, but here it's post-Ida, post-pandemic New Orleans, by "all the raised houses" (29) from Katrina. She wonders "what do i know of anyone's inside lives?" (31). That knowledge is exposed as a "neighborhood still alive inside me" (59) as she strolls through the neighborhood.
The focus is often on parenting, both upward and downward from the speaker, seemingly about the speaker's own parents and own child--and yet "poetry is not memoir" (39, 59, 69); rather "poetry is a / scintilla of doubt" (39, 46, 72, 78), a deconstruction of "forgetting" (56-57, 58), if the text of the poem constitutes a remembrance, such as how professor Derrida suggests that writing is a prosthesis. As the speaker advises, "I remember" (61).
The text storms off the page but shines even more in a live reading. Hembree presents well and should be heard as well as read. This text also contains some lagniappe writings from years past.