The latest entry in the Sylvia Hath sound-alike poetry contest--which woman hates her husband/lover/father most? With ""your ass in my face"" to ""I love. . . even your farts"" this author is almost a shoo-in, employing just about every word for vagina men have ever conceived of: clit, box, cunt, zero, rabbit, piece of liver, rubber cup, marsh, V, purse, gash, wound, sieve, faceless drooling head. This is an ugly book in every sense, about a world unnecessarily (and inexplicably) distasteful (""My mother. . . never/wiped her cunt when she pissed""), unredeemed by sentiment or language. It seems obsessive, intellectually masturbatory, and, finally, forced: if sleeping with men is that terrible, why continue to do it? It is also an oddly impersonal collection, with neither geography (despite the title) nor individuality--its images sound as if they were derived not from the experience of a woman's life but from the rhetoric of men.