Wow. These poems crackle.Amy King's I'm The Man Who Loves You is chock full of poems that bite, that jump off the page, that kiss you, that slap you. They tickle and sting.
Filled with great lines, this collection is now smeared with my pen marks.
Here's a short poem that grabbed me:
Reader Reliance
I'm making incisions across this room at the waitress
who regrets unmarked moments with each small glance
back. Platonic or semiotic, her eyes hear something.
Night becomes a gesture, a recreation room.
We play poker and ping pong and speak through the iris,
popping beats of intent with seldom-fed words.
Something moves between us, projects us in overlap
with little kid liaisons that sound the future tense.
I'm strident on this point. I stride towards an uncooked
method in you, the jewel sequestered --
now make ready the room and look directly at me,
for I"m also calling on the contagiousness of cuts.
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