Alphabet of Mo(u)rning
Lily Press
$40.00
You can purchase a copy here. (MPS blog readers: Use discount code MADPOETS15 to enjoy 15% off your total purchase.)
Reviewed by Abbey J. Porter
Kari Ann Ebert’s recent chapbook, Alphabet of Mo(u)rning, is a nuanced contemplation of opposing forces: desire and death, presence and absence, the physical and the ethereal.
Ebert is as precise as she is subtle, giving attention to each word, each space, and arranging her poems thoughtfully on the page.
Desire hums at a low frequency throughout this 30-page collection. In “Rumination #9,” there is “only the thing-pile backlit by desire in the cold still space behind the wall.” In “Waking Up,” one of the more electrifying poems in the bo
we longed to quicken the dead
To sink into that lightning strike like butter into a hot iron pan to melt to burn
To stave off this ache for a few seconds more. Oh to become the I in revive
In the same poem, Ebert writes of the potential in both the seen and unseen. She describes the invisible, flammable power that runs just beneath the surface:
The heat of a single thought can bloom into flame
Enough to warm a family of four.
The potential for fever claws beneath the skin cool to the touch
She depicts a tension between presence and absence in “Major Tom,” in which she says, “How can you tell if you’re empty or filled density & void/ could pass as twins.” Intellect is not enough of an anchor in this world, as “to be grounded in reason is to vanish like breath.” The solution, it seems, comes in the physical. Ebert writes, “press your mouth to my wrist again/ make me fathom your name.” Here is connection; here is understanding.
Ebert seems to ask, How do we know each other? “I used to drink/ each night while I wished to see your heart ,” she says in “Maadulampazham (in which Her Daughter Hears the Diagnisis).” And in “Writing Love Poems in Pencil,” she says,
I am not a mathematical
equation to be proved
or disproved
I will not
be documented
mechanically
One might ask, What loss does Ebert mourn here? Perhaps the answer is that she mourns what might have been, what cannot be.
Absence is a persistent presence in “Here I am with Wings Tucked Inside my Body.” “Here I am/ sniffing the remnant of your shirt I use to practice my stitching,” our narrator says. “At night I crawl/ under covers that smell of muscle rub & lavender oil.” Inevitably, I wonder, Who has left these traces? She also mentions “clouds/ thick as the wave of your hair,” summoning a “you” who remains unnamed, unseen, unknown.
In keeping with its title, death is a recurring theme in this work. Ebert writes how “Aglossa Cuprina the grease moth attracted to light/ & sugar feeds on the grease of decomposing bodies.” And in “Waking Up,” she refers to “The incandescence of death a light that curls its finger the C in beckon.”
This is densely packed poetry that deserves—even demands—more than a once-over. The more time I’ve spent with it, the more it has revealed. So put your feet up and settle in with this thought-provoking volume. The effort will be richly rewarded.
Abbey J. Porter writes poetry and memoir about people and relationships, life and loss—sometimes even with a bit of humor. She holds an MFA in creative nonfiction from Queens University of Charlotte, an MA in liberal studies from Villanova University, and a BA in English from Gettysburg College. Abbey is a professional freelance writer and editor who lives in Cheltenham, Pa., with her two beloved dogs. You can visit her online at abbeyjportercomms.com.