Ellen Lord's passionate poems often hang out in the liminal space just before dawn. They tell us of a mad mother, a brother dying of his brief, wild life, a husband dying of cancer, and so many other hungry ghosts. But night--the night of sadnesses and deaths, contains "a secret maw of delights." These poems travel between life and death almost seamlessly: "I've let my garden go since my husband died. Strange--how his hand feels so warm in mine." I'm glad to have these generous poems where...