Crushing it Poems

"The brain is hardwired for stories," writes Knox (Days of Shame and Failure) in her darkly inventive fifth collection. Her speakers refrain from judgment as they investigate how stories and anecdotes may help people understand themselves and others: "And that two-step bar behind/ the casino? Fake. I can't prove it. I just know." The collection's first section, "Mines," is made up primarily of poems built from this kind of gut-feeling reportage, while the second section, "Ours," relies on occasionally surreal poetic associations. "So imagine my surprise when I opened one eye," she writes in "My Mother Visits Me in Prison Again," "saw the flower, and it filled me all the way to/ the edges and felt good." Through this shift, Knox reframes the tight lens of the book's first half, allowing imaginative situations and dialogues, as well as startling juxtapositions, to form naturally. For all its easily flowing language and interest in casual conversation, this is a careful, thoughtful book about the complexities of identity and the difficulty of words. (Oct.)

Crushing It I don't wanna brag but I'm pretty sure I got the highest score ever on the ADHD test. The best part was when Mike asked me to juggle a hatchet, a balloon full of pudding, and a hamster, and I was all, "Hold my beer, Mike!" Okay. . . I tanked it. I could go pro at wrong. Blur-- I mean blue--ribbon wrong. You know that feeling: you're throwing elbows like nobody's business but when you finally get up to the window, you can't sign your name right, and the teller gets to keep your money? Which is not legal in ANY state, Mike assures me. Thank you, Mike (if that is your real name). The Gift You can tell whether a bird has a mate if there are pinfeathers on its head, new feathers that start out as stubs full of blood, then enshroud themselves in a white, scaly coat as they grow. Preening releases the feather, but a bird can't reach the top of its own head. A mate preens that spot unless the bird is alone in a cage. Pinfeathers itch, so I preen my unpaired birds: wrap them in a towel, scritch their heads and blow till dandruffy stuff flutters out. They looked pretty mangy this morning, I recall, as I stare at the side of my mother's face from the backseat. How long has it been since I took her in for a haircut? And her whiskers--she can't see to shave. We're driving back roads, pointing out deer and hawks as she ahs, before taking her back to her apartment. Collin calls it "traveling gravel." She loves it when he drives and I sit in the back so she can talk as much as she wants. He always answers her questions. Sometimes I'll go hours without saying a word while she talks and talks. When I was little, she'd bring a book to restaurants and read while I, no doubt, talked and talked. Things children said weren't interesting to her, she told me, and family never had to say, "I'm sorry." Yes, we've hurt each other, but only I've done it on purpose. Did I tell you she bought me this car? It's the most generous gift I've ever received. Irwin Allen vs. the Lion Tamer We used to love lion tamers because people really didn't know who would win in a battle of man versus nature. Back then all the stories ended in death, our death, by mauling or snakebite or dog bite or being struck by lightning, smothered by an avalanche, charged off a cliff, carried away in the talons of an eagle, inhaled by a whale, stung by a scorpion, swarmed by killer bees, gored by a rhino, poisoned by berries, pricked by a sticker, swallowed by quicksand, beguiled by a black cat, gobbled by a witch-- So imagine the relief: with one flick of the whip and an "Up!" the skulking lion stands on legs like a human. Its toothy protest, no big thing. After all those years of fear, I'd laugh at it, too, and that's what people did until there were no more lions to laugh at, but Irwin Allen knew death doesn't live in a thing you can kill with a gun. It's not the heat--it's the hubris. The fire that wipes the city out begins in birthday candles and the happy huff behind them. The storm that flips the cruise ship starts in the sea that rises up to fill the empty sky. An airplane crash begins not in birds, but in the feeders we've stolen the seed from, certain nobody can see us. Excerpted from Crushing It by Jennifer L. Knox All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.