In a sequence populated by iconic figures ranging from Peachy Peach and Glenn Gould to Bon Jovi and someone called Bullet, Meng writes a fragmentary lyricism informed by her Philip Roth "It's impossible to report anything faithfully other than one's own temperature; everything is allegory."
One of the great things about being a poet and being friends with poets, is that we are often able to watch a work being born out of nothing and then coming into existence as a book, years later.
I remember emailing with Catherine about some of the things in this chapbook (the dead neighbor, particular) and thus the book itself becomes a weird mirror into time. All books are this, but it is a particular thing someone's own recollection becomes our own. That's what Proust does, I guess, and the same thing that happens here.