"This book of poetry embodies the process of finding a home in another person and then being evicted. While experimenting with different forms of poetry, the feelings remain raw and unapologetic. This book opens doors to the exploration of finding oneself, the tumultuous experience love can sometimes be, and figuring out how to feel about privilege, sexuality, and depression."
Poetry is more collection and recollection than comprehension. The contradictions of enlightenment and re-enlightenment. We haven't figured ourselves out yet, how can we be expected to understand anything or anyone else?
Poetry evokes different memories and moods depending on when we read. The poem, "Hands" made me recall the song by David Bazan, linked above. rmf says, "I would keep my hands held high, reaching for only the most holy being/ Trying to prove to them, or myself, that I was worthy of love."
It made me wonder if, just for that line in the Bazan song, I shouldn't go back and capitalize the 'H' - which I did.
The passage Christ quotes more than any other passage comes from a book where a man loves and stays with his wife even though she cheats on him over and over and has two kids that aren't his. "I demand mercy, not sacrifice."
The poems of rmf are those of pain and sacrifice. The Tanakh speaks to God demanding this sacrifice - the opening of veins - the letting of blood the literal breaking of hearts. But it's not what God really wanted. "I demand mercy, not sacrifice."
I don't want to read too much meaning into this. As I mentioned in my review of One Hundred Years of Solitude, there's danger in that. It detracts. And rmf says the same thing in "Hermosa."
"...And here in this place, understanding does not matter/ because beauty has always transcended meaning./ That's why we stand in museums of art no one can make sense of."
And even with quoting that line, I'm reading meaning into meaning. So I'll stop.