And - Debora Greger - Bog

From the title poem:
Ampersand
pink as dead shrimp, the unborn curls in its tide pool--seed pearl
whose mother lusters over irritant love it's too late to dislodge;
little anemone, shrinking from touch. So and holds separate what it most closely binds.
Review:
"Ms. Greger's poems take place at the point of encounter between the mind and the world of matter. . . . And it is the resistance of the real and the increasing urgency the poet feels in trying to extinguish her solitude . . . that make these poems emotional."--The New York Times Book Review
Originally published in 1985.
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