Reviewed by Fred Joiner
The poems of this collection have, as the title indicates, a gravity that draws the reader in from the first poem. Lamon’s poems take the definition of the word gravity to its limit, by using the poems to demonstrate the existence of gravity as related to the human spirit, place or in relationships.
In “Bad Ear,” Lamon creates a feeling of intimacy by having the speaker beckoning for the reader to “lean in,” to come in closer, so as to be heard and felt saying:
I cannot hear you
You are speaking
to my bad ear,
my right side.
Over there, I only feel
These lines alert the reader that any exchange from this point forward will require intimacy, attention to detail, and a level comfort with a gravitational force of words that pull where they wish.
In “All That Descends in a Month,” Lamon introduces Dexter, a young grade school math whiz, who would rather use the month of February to “talk exponents,/ take Harriet/to the second power, find the derivative/of Thurgood, divide all the world/by Abednego.” In this piece, Dexter wants a living history, not one restricted by “The ashen blue line/ that history defines,” nor does Dexter want an annual rehash of “All the names they study, dead or on their way. Dead and cold, still/ so black.”
The use of “dead” and “cold” here subtly speak to both the winter season and to the distance that Dexter feels from the names he studies during African-American History Month. Later in the piece, Lamon again uses the seasonal metaphor to shed light on how “February is the month/of frozen figures” and further communicates Dexter’s want for a more interactive or lively history lesson.
As we exit the poem, we are drawn more into the descent of snow in Dexter’s surreal day-dreamy world where “Buffalo Soldiers point at light. Tuskegee/Airmen stir the wind” and “Pullman Porter clusters hitch rides on snowflakes…to make surfaces just right for snow angels.” The merging of Dexter’s history lesson with the scenery as he sees it is a delicate end to a poem that tackles a not so delicate topic.
In the second section of the book, “Across Dust,” Lamon creates a gravity of sorts in a suite of poems called “Say Spirit.” These poems are not only drawn to one another by their content and the relationship of the characters in them, but Lamon links the poems themselves by using a phrase from one poem as the title for the next. In the final poem of the four poem suite, “If We Are,” the narrator draws us into her solemn world of separation from a lover:
Kau di dalam emois ini – and I know it
must mean another dawn will find us apart
you and I burning like summer’s distant wildfires
We stretch across miles and borders
[…]
We are music seeking new words – your absent
gaze upon me – my fleeting, labored breath.
In “Through Undertow,” the third section, Lamon shows us her adeptness at mixing the iconography of popular culture with her contemplative observations. In the poem “Nine Days Before Kirby High’s Senior Prom,” Mad Dog (a cheap wine popular among college students) and John Mayer find common ground in this piece without it seeming forced. However, “Keloidal,” the last poem in this section appears to be out of place when read alongside the other poems in all their pop culture freshness. The poem keeps a somber almost melancholy tone throughout the poem that is not wholly present in the other poems in this section.
In the final two sections, “Unclaimed Airspace” and “Due North of Centrifuge,” Lamon’s pieces continue to draw meaning from one another to give the reader a narrative experience. The first four pieces of “Unclaimed Airspace” tell a story of a child’s birth from conception, origins and lineage, and end with the origin of her name. Although, “When Brenda Lynette Turns Pregnant,” the first poem, focuses on a pregnant young woman in the very recent modern day, the other three poems, “Origins,” “Named” and “Jacqueline” have a more mature, almost autobiographic feel to them; the idea of conception in “Brenda” is what bonds this poem to the ones to follow.
The final poem of the last section brings this collection full circle to address the sense of hearing, with “Partial Loss” saying:
She hears the world
she wants to hear
She gathers sounds
selectively.
The narrator goes to on to reiterate the requisite intimacy and closeness necessary while engaging these poems:
Say it to her
again. One more time,
with clarity.
Closer – for the scratched out membranes
Louder – for the crumbling cartilage.
In this slim collection Lamon has shared with us a graceful and dignified portrait of America in all of its gravity; shedding light on the vicissitudes of life that find us solemn and somber, but that still seem to gather us together.