With humor and musicality, Martha Silano's The Little Office of the
Immaculate Conception rollicks through fourteen billion years of
cosmology: galaxies, aliens, an astronaut's dropped glove. When she's
not picking a bone with a shortsighted and side-talking populous, she's
conceiving her own personal Big Bang. When her nouns are diaper and
bibs, Silano sticks to a larger vision, seeing past gelatinous mashed
peas toward the moon and stars. This cosmic-consciousness is woven right
in with the mittens and the meercats, her lens taking in not only the
crumbs she must wipe up, but also polio-stricken nations, the hungry
Eritreans, "the old man who shuffles along / as if he might be carrying
/ in that steamy bowl / all our children's futures." We're all "sibling
citizens of this swirly world," writes Silano, but she knows that danger
lurks not only in the heavens and the atmosphere, but also on our
glistening streets. As Campbell McGrath notes, The Little Office of the
Immaculate Conception is "comic and wise, quotidian and celestial."