In poems haunted by the dead "Photographer God" Marisa Frasca takes up the now almost forgotten voice of a gifted storyteller-part spell, alive with detail, she transports Sicily to the NewWorld. Poems, like some passions, can be dangerous-eating anartichoke delicately "so needles won't stick in my throat." Loss iscountered by the pulse of all that is wild-an ocean, a volcano, agull feather, blood oranges, mandolins. These are layered poems, where ancient songs infuse the modern. Frasca is bold and she can see in the dark. -Anne Marie Macari
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