Laura Apol's latest poetry collection, Cauterized, is moving and beautiful, even in its sadness. Apol locates longing so viscerally: the upturned palms, scars “brined as leather,” “a daughter’s name/ brimstone on my tongue,” “shampoo and clothes . . ./ the scent of her,” “such hunger, so little bread.” Yet the poems persist in finding ways to soften grief so that it can be carried: the daughter is not just a meteor flaming out, but a voice saved in amber; the mother asks the doe “what to take over, crossing; /what to leave behind.” And the brave poems “Backbeat” and “One Magnolia” acknowledge that such deep grieving—in blood and bone—can be salved because, as the final poem observes, "everything rises, however buried.”