Synopsis "the memory of gills,poems (in English)"
Catherine Carter's first volume of poetry exudes a genuinely classical quality-cool-eyed and clear-eyed, intelligent, unsentimental, self-aware, and witty in the fullest and best sense. Carter takes our evolutionary development in the womb as a departure point for remembering or imagining our links with nonhuman animals, which make us feel both alien and alive. She writes of being "raised by wolves," that "everyone marries into another species," and of "hearing things" in the voices of the rattlesnake plantain or the apple core. With an offbeat, sometimes-gallows humor-the poems' subjects range from roadkill to stingray-human sex to a traffic ticket for avoiding toads on the road-that looks at our connections of blood, home, and exile, The Memory of Gills nonetheless speaks of hope that we belong where we are.Last night or rather this morning she calledon the telephone in my dream. She thought it wasThanksgiving, and she didn't know she was dead.I didn't want to tell her she was dead, or going to diethis May, which in the dream was still next May. I told herabout the job I still had last Thanksgiving, tried to remember. My mother was there and spoketo her; no one knew quite what to sayexcept love -- and before that I woke up.She called, across six months, six feet;she called us, and we didn't know how to goor what to say. Dead was too heavy, we couldn'tsay that; we couldn't say anything really. Except love, which this one time ought to have been enough, but, as it always is, was nothing like enough. -- "The Telephone in My Dream"
