Tributary

The powerful second book from Salerno (Shelter) considers a river’s shape-shifting shallows, currents, sediments, and “swift debris,” through which the poet tells stories of loss and restitution. The river itself is dammed and damned. At times, the river is a beloved addressee with decidedly Whitmanian inflections: “Dear great river, part of my life/ unfailingly,// to where may I climb to pike your water?” Elsewhere, the river’s “mangled idiom” serves as a shadowy repository of crimes and abuses, “the blackwater mouth/ its loan ghost groan,/ soothing me into your sentient stone.” Conceived as a backwoods church service from processional to benediction, the book reflects an intimate, ambivalent familiarity with biblical scripture and fundamentalist practices. Angels rub shoulders with anglers, and lovers of fly-fishing will recognize their art captured in several poems. Salerno joins her voice to the river to “deny the paying of tribute” to the patriarchy: “I say/ I am the river/ I say/ I am grown I say/ listen/ to my rushing/ I say/ you will stay/ until I’ve finished/ my rushing.” Salerno delivers a bold, memorable, and capacious collection. (Apr.)