In poems that are whittled down to their bones––lines often pared down to two words, stanzas to a single line, poems populated by no more than a handful of crystalline images––every gesture, object, and eluded memory is charged with energy, whether that energy is erotic, precarious, stored trauma, or grief. The unspoken-ness of the memory preserves the sensory effect of trauma, how it is something stored and silent in the body––something stored in present tense (notice “my uncle calls”, “I am the bare one”), replaying in the body and in the blue bedroom, even after the end of childhood. The silence of night, the silence of the memory, is what is most harrowing––and what breaks the silence: the sound of deer tracks on the damp grass, the tracks of “every startled animal”.