Molly Fisk makes poems of the things people would rather die than tell you. Reading her poems is often like starting down a path in May only to find yourself surrounded by December disclosures. Perhaps enclosures is the better word, because her poems close around you. You’re busy savoring her observations of her surroundings until that moment when they’ve dropped away and you’re standing in that holy of holies, the mysterium of a fellow being’s life. Not that these are confessional poems—not in the manner of Elizabeth Bishop or Robert Lowell—but rather that Fisk has brought you to the realization that everything is a facet of the same jewel.