“A winter’s day,” Paul Simon sang, before having a son, before consciousness of climate change, before the hollowing of your hometown mall. All the billboards say “danger danger” or “memento mori.” So Caryl (as a coyote) pounds the Cleveland cement with a crystalline facility, followed by Emily’s Fly, Marianne’s Fish, and various background actors from The Walking Dead. Through her discerning ultrasound lens, “rock” means steady, “still” means photo, “earth” means land filled with dirt (i.e. diapers, cars, peanut butter jars). The Rust Belt is in the eye of the beholder, and we are just routine roadkill beholden, beheld, in the belly, of the belly, of the belly. As the poles melt, and cops concentrate on policing women’s bodies, gunning down Black and Brown children, she reads to tread water, and sees poems as vessels for hopeful souls. Squirreling optimism like a mother. Putting bandaids on bullet holes, one boot in front of the other. Free Clean Fill Dirt by Caryl Pagel (University of Akron Press, 2022).
