Rash yet tender, chastened yet lush, Headwaters is a book of
opposites, a book of wild abandon by one of the most formally exacting
poets of our time. Animals populate its pages--owl, groundhog, fox, each
with its own inimitable survival skills--and the poet who so
meticulously observes their behaviors has accumulated a lifetime's worth
of skills herself: she too has survived. The power of these
extraordinary poems lies in their recognition that all our experience is
ultimately useless--that human beings are at every moment beginners,
facing the earth as if for the first time. Don't you think I'm doing
better, asks the first poem. You got sick you got well you got sick,
says the last.
Eschewing punctuation, forgoing every symmetry, the poems hurl
themselves forward, driven by an urgent need to speak. Headwaters is a
book of wisdom that refuses to be wise, a book of fresh beginnings by an
American poet writing at the height of her powers.