AN ANGEL IN MY GARDEN

A widower compiles a collection of older and newer poems.

Grams (Grandpa, I’m Afraid, 2018, etc.) begins with a frank introduction, in which he acknowledges taking his first steps in the healing process a year after his wife Linda’s death: “How do I fill this abyss? I have begun.” Looking back at 35 years together, the author calculates that they spent only 50 nights apart during 32 years of marriage. In this historical record of sorts—most writings date from the 1980s—he contextualizes each work with compelling background information. One distinctive feature of this volume is that a number of poems are written in Spanish; Grams explains, “Our secret code was our Spanish; she understood it well, and I could abandon all discretion with it.” These rapturous descriptions suggest a lover’s passion and an enthusiasm for expressing oneself in a second language, but there are occasional errors. While describing Linda’s height in “Cuando La Veo” (“When I See Her”), Grams mixes up “pulgadas” (inches) with “pulgares” (thumbs). Likewise, although the author most likely intended to write, “I felt as if I were dreaming of Venus” (“me sentí como si estuviera soñando con Venus”), he writes “sounded with Venus” (“sonado con” instead of “soñando con”). That said, he sets up some notable juxtapositions in both languages, such as “Caring anger” in “A Lonely Boy,” and “Los sueños están nevando” (“Dreams are snowing”) in “A sleepy night after Thanksgiving.” Readers gain insight into Linda’s personality when Grams observes, “A nose that smells burning toast yet withholds fiery disdain.” The author’s presentation of a 1984 love letter curiously combines writings from Lionel Richie and Edna St. Vincent Millay, and “A Child Is Born” offers a humorous take on differing reactions to news of pregnancy. Still, the depth of his loss permeates the book, as evidenced by a more recent poem, “When Emptiness Is Full”: “Meals taste like the sawdust of an oaken casket. / Sleep a sweltering eternity. A rose a crumbling parchment. / Holidays are eves of forever.” (Includes illustrations and seemingly candid black-and-white photos by Achterberg, whose subjects are unidentified.)

An earnest outpouring of grief and memory despite occasional flaws.