HIVE
Suzanne Mercury, poems
Lily Poetry Review Books, 2023
Suzanne Mercury’s Hive feels a firsthand account of something the world began with. How does pain get in? Fly low, sorrow. There is a spell here that knows math to be a lived-in magic. What else is here? The shrinkage of syllables into a hole that stores loss so quickly it somehow shortens longing. It’s a work that seems written in the reading, but also written again and before. There are colors I can’t say out loud. And why? The world is beaten blue and blue. Suzanne Mercury seemingly knows the abyss to be a joke in the void. It stings. Hurt repositions the superimposed. Stillness occupies nothing, but invades movement. Sadness roars. I am sure I am misquoting Franz Wright, but, in spirit, Wright said something similar or something exactly that sounded to me like this: How does anyone do anything? Hive is a sound. A brief, underlying, and futuristic sound, trembled brightly into the unheard now.
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reflection by Barton Smock
kingsoftrain 
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