Hard Reds

In her first collection of poems, Brandi Homan, editor-in-chief of the local feminist press Switchback Books, establishes herself as a potent new voice on the Chicago poetry scene. Though her language is as honed as a steel blade, the poet herself isn’t hardened: Some of her best pieces contain tender reflections rendered in simple language.

Many of the metaphors are worth committing to memory. In “Cohabitation,” Homan describes a man “whose name is a heartbeat in my mouth.” In “Exodus,” she writes, “swallow your words/tight and clean as the rivet’s wound.” In “The Valentine Factory,” the collection’s last and strongest poem, Homan takes a well-known symbol, the valentine, and deftly twists it to represent not love but emptiness: “Mother, I must admit I blame you for giving until nothing remains— / construction paper whose center has been cut into the shape of a heart / and removed.”

Homan also has a sense of humor. In “Where You Touched,” she conjures an adolescent dance, addressing her partner, “Someday, I’ll mail you my braces.” In another poem she writes of misreading a sign that says “Adopt a Pet” as “Adopt a Poet.” But hold onto your dictionaries, folks: Homan rattles off million-dollar verbiage like ischium, dyskinesia and bradycardia. Though hunting down meaning can be part of the fun for a reader, Homan is most successful in pared-down powerhouses like “Invocation,” a love poem. In some, she demonstrates that poetry benefits from simple, yet beautiful language. “Garden Run Wild” is an erotic piece comprised of variations on evocative words: “…Cinnamon slipping / Into my sunset… / …/ you’ve left me hooved / and slipping in cinnamon.” Even when the meaning is slightly obscured, Homan’s words and rhythms are seductive.