“If this is sin, then sign me up / for Dante’s hell,” proclaims Judith Saunders in her new collection, enticing the reader to follow her, “to practice each / defining gesture of our love / with ceaseless zeal.” These are poems that sing through the senses: “Summer lingers, lush / beyond its prime, tropic days / breeding fat, moist nights. / We taste the swollen season / and defy the calendar.”

 

To Woo a Woman

 

Meatloaf, beet greens, baked potato,

some oatmeal raisin cookies for dessert.

No cordon bleu, no Something Boeuf.

The brown and rounded hump of meatloaf

sprawled in homely hominess,

spiked with bits of onion and tomato,

its delicious nonchalance

(as Gertrude Stein would say)

completely peaceful and exciting.

The beet greens promised whimsy, flair,

a feel for country quaintness,

succulent stalks concealing

tiny, unexpected bursts

of bud, some early red to tint

the tang of sharp spring green.

And courtship with a baked potato!

—crunchy crusted, innards soft

and buttery, tasting of a bounty

absolute and unselfconscious.

Each bite of oatmeal cookie blended

wholesomeness of grain and fruit

with caramel chewiness and spice,

a giddy rush of sweet,

sheer down-home paradise.

This meal was one to eat

and eat again, reassuring

in its perfect plainness, plain

perfection, food to rave for

and cleave to and swear by,

nourishing an ever after.