Poet Alison Pelegrin weaves quiet tales of desolation, all couched in rich detail and character illustration. She writes about her mother, her uncle Earl, Eunice and other characters that seem ordinary but have a hint of star power. She dances in the title poem with a one-armed man who moves gracefully across the floor like a Fred Astaire. Reading the poem, you almost wish she was with the real Astaire, then his one arm wouldn't matter. The title poem reads: "He spins me, and his one good arm is stronger than I thought. I can see through his yellow oxforda ribbed undershirt, air beneath his elbow. When he turns me to his chest I feel the crinkle of his pocket full of peppermints. The tobacco smell he's steeped in wraps around us like a sweet cherry sheet. Heavy and misshapen, the half-arm hooks my waist, and his eyes push me backwards in a waltz. His leather shoes whisper across the floor until they barely touch, and when the song is over we keep moving. I'm afraid he'll dance away my legs or twist me into spins until I vanish. Then he has to cover up my stumbling the way I've poised my right arm to hide his empty sleeve."
"The tobacco smell he's steeped in" is a good description, and it is often smells that reconnect us to memories of a time and place long ago. Alison Pelegrin makes her memories ours. A fine collection.