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Ellen Morris' short, spare poems in Surrender are full of vivid images, arrows aimed at our shared human experiences. It's as if she reads our memories and says, "Yes, I know." She slides from sweet to astringent to amorous. A mother sends her daughter off to school: "…I catch a glimpse/of her purple gloved hand waving/as she sends me off into the world." A father is remembered as he polished his shoes: "…The bristled brush so like you, easily rubbed the wrong way." The joy of Saturday sex: "As the mailman rings the doorbell, we lie together slowing."
Each verse contains a delightful surprise.