Amy Roa’s poetry book ‘Radioactive Wolves’
Picking up a book of poems is always a gamble. Poems almost always have to venture into the fog of someone else’s consciousness, or the murk of emotion. As a result, the poems of a stranger often do not make sense to the self as a reader. Imagine a climbing wall made from butter. Imagine the sun shining on it.
On the other hand, poems that make too much sense are flat, so why bother climbing at all?
I had never read an Amy Roa poem until opening her collection Radioactive Wolves to the book’s first poem “Axolotl.” I ordered the book because I liked the title and the cover, and I saw a plug for it on Vol. 1 Brooklyn. Vol. 1 Brooklyn has never let me down. I trust Vol. 1 Brooklyn.
The first poem “Axolotl” didn’t do much for me to be honest, except I couldn’t deny the poem either. My curiosity had been piqued, but through the first handful of poems, I was wandering in a mist. I’d been here before — books of poetry often work like this.
Then the subtle repetition of devices and images started to creep in and constellate, and the brain started to contrive order out of the mess. The slow start gained momentum. The disorienting mist didn’t lift, but I learned how to read it.
Poets are often best dissected in their own words. Here’s a few from the title poem in Roa’s collection:
The truth is, I’ve never met a wolf I didn’t like,
I’ve hated every job I’ve ever had. I once held a cricket,
its abdomen close to my ear,
and walked through a vein in its heart.
Same.
