Bough Down

This poetry-prose hybrid attempts to deal with Green’s husband’s death, flitting back and forth in time as everything in the present dredges up memories of her husband. Scattered throughout are visual poems—images of words cut out, rearranged, and painted over so some can barely be read. These images are small—some literally appear to be postage stamps—and easy to overlook, but they tie into the written passages in subtle ways. Early on, Green lists: “August. Abluvion. Airling. All-overish. I write these words down for later.” About halfway through, in the image that became the book’s cover, words starting with “A” appear in a different font, cut from a different source. On the next page, Green sighs: “No wonder I can’t make out the dictionary’s secret arc.” Words are her coping mechanism, but it’s clear from the beginning that they aren’t enough to convey the depth of her grief. She buries herself in the lives of people around her: a jazz singer, the doctor at the mental hospital, her dogs. The book hints at healing, but with such stream-of-consciousness prose and a traumatic subject, closure may be too much to hope for: Green’s last words on the subject are an abrupt: “I can’t wrap this up.” Perhaps her redemption comes from trying. 53 color illus. (Apr.)