Sarah Wetzel's vulnerable and intimate lyrical gestures inhabit the delicate space between this world and the world to come, between one century, one moment, and the next. Their verbs gather ghostly bodies in Rome and Tuscany, in Georgia and New York; every object they encounter becomes a sacred door. This is a memoir of a woman who moves through art as through the world, who moves through the world as through an ever changeful museum of art. She demonstrates again and again that we are never alone, even after deaths and divorce, even before the mirror of our most radiantly broken self.
The book is cleverly organized and motifs circle back around to establish some central themes and settings. Art, history, and culture are intermingled in delightful ways, and there are some brilliant lines ("A fake is not a fake until someone notices"). It is well-written and feels like a cohesive narrative, but is stronger as a whole than its individual pieces--most of the poems are entertaining, but don't stand out enough to be memorable and give the book a lasting impact.