Stuart Ross (1) (1959–)

In my last poetry review (for [b:Blue|1386458|Blue|George Elliott Clarke|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1348117877s/1386458.jpg|1376513]) I talked a bit about the joys of looking through a radically different perspective at the world. This collection comes from what surely must be as radically different a perspective, but the joy here was recognizing so much of myself in the difference. The off-kilter, surreal, small city life reflected herein was like a homecoming. I had several favorites, but this is the one that most captured that sense:

French Fries

You are lying in the back seat
of a blue 1964 Valiant station wagon.
You are so small that,
stretched to your full length,
you fit between the doors.
Your mother is in the front seat.
She thinks you are asleep.
But your eyes are open and
you are peering up, out
the side window, watching
the stars whip by. In cottage country,
there are so many stars.
You feel the car slow down
and come to a stop. Your father
whispers to your mother.
You hear the door open and close.
The stars are motionless
in the sky's thick black.
In the front seat, you mother coughs.
Soon the car door opens again.
You smell French fries. It is time
to pretend to wake up.

Also see karen's review for two more of my favorites, "Fennel" and "Late". Overall, highly recommended.
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