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Jennifer Franklin reimagines an Antigone for our times in her third collection, If Some God Shakes Your House, where filial devotion and ossified roles of gendered labor become the engine of her defiance. Franklin’s Antigone is ferocious, feeling, and unafraid of the consequences of speaking the truth to power about the political atrocities she has witnessed and personal traumas she has withstood. With a sensitivity that equally elevates the quotidian and the classical, and an attention that moves from the ancient ruins of Pompeii to the right of bodily autonomy and agency stripped away by our own Supreme Court, Franklin reveals the high stakes of our moment where “the one who does the judging judges things all wrong.” Franklin’s Antigone has embraced the sacrifice of self for something greater—a dual devotion to her disabled daughter and to her art. “For twenty years, I have been disappearing,” she writes in the book’s final poem, yet she continues to sing.

If You Would Let Me uses the myth of Persephone and Demeter to explore, in an utterly contemporary idiom, the hellish descents and unequivocal love of a mother and an adolescent child. The old story is reimagined in new terms—a present-day Persephone’s cycles of psychic affliction giving rise to botched facial piercings, social media ghostings, and squalls of physical fury—and revoiced in poems that sing Demeter’s rage, the depths of maternal grief, the seasons of erasure and renewal. In an electric transposition of classic lore onto modern descriptive modes, Dietz casts the imperiling pubescence and anxiety of middle school as canonically significant and dangerously chimerical: “Persephone and her friends brought / Waxed paper cups of ice cream / To the meadow by the river,” where “Their laughter made ripples a heron / Mistook for alewives underwater” while “Under some of their shirts” grew “The first hiccups of puffy nipples.” Throughout these teenage transformations and the distances they grow, Dietz remains as constant as a lodestar, offering unwavering light for her child to see by in order to return. “You must know what I mean even if / You do not know you know: Child, // When you called my name I heard you / Though your cries could find no wind.”  Formally meticulous and sonically intricate, these poems hear as much as they make themselves heard, harnessing ancient energies to create a picture of our recycled world—a story for our own times, one not only familiar but perennially, timelessly true.  

A book-length poem serving as a son’s elegy for his late father, an artist and forest steward.

Rob Schlegel’s long poem Inventory emerges from three discrete inventories the poet must catalog in the aftermath of a sudden loss: a selection of his father’s art to be organized for a posthumous exhibition, two hundred acres of trees in a forest stewarded by his father in western Oregon, and his own emotional landscape in the aftermath of his father’s death. As Schlegel moves through these collections of objects and emotions, he learns how to navigate grief. His father’s paintings act as an inventory of the poet’s own life, with each landscape recalling a moment in time, each sketch holding a story. Celebrating a close relationship while mourning its loss, Schlegel reflects on the ties between art and grief, parents and children, people and trees. 

At the time of his father’s death, an extreme heatwave was moving across the region, broadening the scope of grief from the personal and familial to encompass tragedies on a larger scale. Social disintegration and climate disaster weave through the lives of a family in mourning as they navigate the complexity of how to sit with loss, change, love, and art. Through quiet, measured verse and arresting simplicity, Inventory extends the ekphrastic tradition into a contemporary elegy rich in both profound sadness and optimism for the future. 

Houlihan’s sixth collection of lyric poems reflects upon the persistence of what is lost and the accidental ruptures of trauma that allow re-entry into our world. These poems are at once despairing and hopeful.