Imperial Bender

Smeltz flexes her muscles in a debut collection as notable for its sonnet crowns and classical rhymes as it is for its sense of post-industrial burnout and irresistible swagger. "About breasts the west has plenty to say./ This poem is the tits./ This poem's Marilyn Monroe," she claims in "Crown for a Natural Disaster," before continuing, as though apologizing for her own grandeur and ability, "This poem of panache/ is a gateau topped with too much ganache." The poems are hurled at the reader one after another, their own eclectic forms providing the collection's space and shape. "The Exchange," is arranged into two short, supple columns, that can be read separately or as a whole unit, whereas "October Sky" is built of airy stanzas that hum with New York energy and the search for inspiration, that elusive element: "For once are you talking/ to the light/ which is tiny & votive which is not like the sun// are you talking to the sun?" Longer pieces like "Baby, Vivere" move quickly through Smeltz's vivid imagery and stunning assertions: "Circular saw of time buzzing through me, I open arms/ to more water or sawdust." And lest one wonder whether "happiness is possible," she'll "tattoo it into your bones/ with a mallet if you need it." (Jan.)