In language as beautiful as it is forboding, Margo Taft Stever’s poems call to us from the dream just before apocalypse, a dream filled with caged animals, caged people, all manner of the ones gone, or soon to go missing.
Instructions for Burial Dress her in blood stone and azure silk from Le Printemps. Let blue springs envelope her. Let her grow roots—a tree, pulling water from earth to bough, branches training leaves; each season—each separate body—each universe smaller— explained and recanted. On the evening news, scientists gather wearing masks; it is not Halloween. Each holds a variant explanation.