House with Only an Attic and a Basement

But back to the summer day the spike

grazed my brother's scalp: I slept beside him

in his racing car bed and my father woke me

and slapped my face, thinking, I assume, of sex,

whereas I was already thinking about death.

 

Urban, suburban, observant, obsessive and wickedly witty, the poems in Kathryn Maris's third book range over such subjects as parenthood, marriage, adultery, the politics of children's sports contests, female incarceration and psychoanalysis. The House with Only an Attic and a Basement is that rare thing: a darkly funny collection of poems that courses with keen intelligence, yet carries its sophistication lightly so that it is a pleasure to stride along with every poem.