Ribbons Spilling From His Sleeve

Here's the line from Richard Siken's _Crush_ that lured me first:

"I couldn't get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time."

Really the whole book spills forth once you open it; there's an urgency
and intensity that makes it seem as if it must be written
on something sturdier than paper. Louise Gluck compares Siken
to Plath; it's easy to see why: the sustained drama, dry humor,
flourishes of color and texture. What's more, for me, is the truth
of the violence in the poems: "universal" of course (tired word),
but also distinctly queer. Siken captures the sheer danger
of existing in a queer (boy's) body, the danger of walking the road
at night and the danger of waking up beside someone who might
love you, kill you, or both. And wanting both. The beauty of both,
of never being bored, and in spite of the blood not wanting to trade,
ever, one word for some more acceptable suburban pleasure.