Number 7 in the Found Street series, consisting of two poems by Jack Skelley. One seems merely to literally (and fondly) describe a woman's ability to make salad, but slowly, subtly, becomes a high-rite celebration of everything she is; the other is equally playfully/ardently in love with the same woman.--Bob Grumman
This review originally appeared in TapRoot Reviews #4,
Contact the editor, luigi-bob drake, at Burning Press
Copyright Burning Press 1994, 1995.