Her pieces bristle with hungry questions about capital sin, the consequence of foresight, the criminal acts that only the loved can commit. Like adulterers meeting in a cheap motel, the measured familiarity of classical mythology seduces the bitter grime of an all-night diner, and the resulting bastards are Valente’s poems, redolent of a survivor’s sophisticated, cold confidence:

I was your insensate earth,
the bank of a pinioned river—-
you rammed your knees into the small of my back
to plant your corpse-flower in the mud,
wedge your ashen tongue into my joints
and open me like a salmon,
your classic face from every angle
reflecting in my flagellated mouth.
(from “The Metamorphosis of Narcissus”)

Every poem is an opportunity for the reader to share a shot and a smoke, a Friday night that melts into a hazy Saturday morning: where Valente’s hands would surely punctuate, her language is as bold as gesture. As textured as fishnet stockings (and just as sexy), every line is laden with imagery rich enough to make the reader salivate. One finishes Valente’s poems feeling as if you’ve seen her naked, throat bared and hip bone exposed, and every sly rereading makes one blush:

The moon cut her fingers like a sheet of paper
and the second time under her wound-light
I planted a tangerine tree in her navel
pushing the seed deep with my tongue—-
when I lay over her the branches
pulled me in
and the smell of citrus scalded my lungs.
I swallowed her like peeled fruit and the dark
dusty leaves played chinese checkers on our skin.
(from “Algorithm for Finding the Shortest Path Between Two Points”)

The strength of this volume comes from the immediate and violent connection between Valente and the reader: even her most exultant pieces convey intense observation bordering on pain, and one can’t help but capitulate.

The press of her close,
her breath of cinnamon and plums
she steals my howling womb,
swallows the scarlet grail of my body
like rain
and the wrench of it
convulses through the trees.
(from “The Oracle at Kiluea”)

Excitingly, this chapbook is destined to be a collectors item: J*A*M Pie Press has printed a limited batch, and conceivably this volume will gain mythical collector status in a few years: Valente has a novel coming out this summer, at least four more after that, and ten of her poems will appear in an anthology of Californian poets this year. At a mere $7 (including an autograph!), this chapbook is well worth the meager cost. Purchase it--doing so supports not only Valente, but independent publishing as well.

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Purchase Music of a Proto-Suicide

Official Site for Catherynne M Valente