Oh, read this collection. Theresa Boyar's writing is so, so beautiful and these poems (in three short sections: stir, simmer, and burn) are populated with women and children, grandmothers, angels, saints, witches and particularly, the kitchen witch, the "uncooperative hostage/ defiant beneath her shawl/ eternally silent and determined/ to keep her magic to herself."
I'm at a loss reviewing poetry, so I'll just give you this, from the poem "Sympathetic Magic":
"mended and wrapped and propped on starched sheets.
You can see how everything bridges together,
and you drink your milk for good measure,
conjuring new stars from the burnt-out sky."