Night Madre

<p><strong>Kay Reid'</strong>s latest poetry collection <em>Night Madre </em>is a gorgeous panoply of astute at once objective and yet emotional observations remembrances despairs and hopes of a wise poet in the middle of her ninth decade. It begins with Tattoos a sort of memoir of the body after a long life full of loves battles and each of their scars that decorate the skin. <em>As I grow ancient / let tattoos appear / all over my body. / I will consult them / for evidence of what I've been.</em> And the collection ends with Ballot Box a plea for us to come together which seems impossible to us now but . . . <em>Here no matter what positions we assume / our faces are not far from each other. / We can muster some kind of friendship.</em> Perhaps my favorite piece is Why I Like Bad Poetry <em>Basically I'm a friend of mistakes. / They warm my heart / like fat white pancakes / and Folgers. / It's safe to get out of bed knowing / another faultless day / of plain human error / expert self-deception / and helpless dishonesty / await me</em> Ha. This is an example of the thread of sage humor that weaves throughout<em> Night Madre</em> as well as the matter-of-factness of the poet's voice that somehow brings comfort. <em>Poet love / come with me tonight! / No more blubbering. / Just hold on hard!</em></p><p></p><p><strong>-Leanne Grabel</strong></p>