“they ask me to remember / but they want me to remember / their memories / and i keep on remembering / mine”. Lucille Clifton’s poetry is not super familiar to me, though I’m pretty sure I recognised this short piece, ‘why some people be mad at me sometimes’; this selection of her work Blessing The Boats, spanning a long career, newly (re?)published in the UK, so clearly proves her high place in the pantheon of the greatest late twentieth- / early twenty-first-century American poets. Her writing on womanhood, the body, Blackness and poetry itself is as visionary as it is lyrical, and somehow sparse, un-ornate. I was stunned by poems like ‘dialysis’ (“after the cancer i was so grateful to be alive. i am alive and furious. Blessed be even this?”), ‘study the masters’, ‘shapeshifter poems’, ‘the yeti poet returns to his village to tell his story’, ‘alabama 9/15/63’, ‘far memory’, the exceptional ‘1994’, and ‘donor’ (“suppose my body does say no to yours. again, again i feel you buckled in despite me, lex, fastened to life like the frown on an angel's brow.”). Then there’s the title poem, in which Clifton is at her most hopeful: “may you kiss / the wind then turn from it certain that it will / love your back may you open your eyes to water / water waving forever / and may you in your innocence sail through this to that”. I also loved the gorgeous series of poems addressed to Clark Kent and Superman, as well as the more stark poems, informed by the coldness of the world, as in ‘the times’: “another child has killed a child / and i catch myself relieved that they are / white and i might understand except / that i am tired of understanding.”