These poems are at once see-through and opaque, like the hose a Hooters waitress wears.
Her poems pirouette effortlessly across the stage of the page. The reader never detects a scent of sweat emanating from their Ballerina Author, and never guesses at the hideous, twisted feet that must enable her to leap so high.
These poems are deeply attenuated to their surroundings. If Emerson was a Transparent Eyeball who was able to see all, this poet is a Pink Nipple who is able to feel all. She stands stiff in the air-conditioned room of the world.
These are rich, decadent poems--so rich and decadent that I imagined the author groaning aloud as she wrote them, like a woman eating yogurt in the bath.