Anne Leigh Parrish’s poems in The Moon Won’t Be Dared are an extended meditation that weaves through time and humanity, injustices and struggles, but with an eye towards love and beauty. These captivating poems carry an underlining ache of loss—past and future—but they are grounded in the present, in beetle and spider, in river and forest, in the windows that look into the yard. Parrish writes we can only burn slowly over time, and we see this book is full of light—fire, streetlight, smokelight, garden light, twilight, starlight, and in fact, darkness/becomes light when the world bears us/along. This is a voice willing to convey what isn’t working in the world, but also to always acknowledge what is—a child of the night/who lived on moonlight and cold sparkle stars. Parrish’s poems feed us, and they will hold us long enough/to tinge the dawn with hope.—Kelli Russell Agodon, author of Dialogues with Rising Tides (Copper Canyon Press)
“a survey of the female experience”
the rib never fit
and the apple had worms
fig leaves are for fools shaming the
triangle of life
caves sheltered as long as you brought
down your share, felled by points you
chiseled by the hour, in between
sewing skins and putting the baby
to your breast—
migrations, snow, death
seeds sown, crops harvested
you:
learn to read, get the vote, work on the floor
with a glass ceiling
are told you are unreliable, emotional, a false accuser
when your boss grabs your ass
you:
want to go on the pill, and your doctor
looks at your ringless left hand, then says no—
you:
get an abortion to free yourself of a burden you
cannot carry, given you by a man who
lied, stole, cheated
you:
live in a country where the ruling party
wants to own your womb
it’s their right, they say, because
they know so much better
you will never:
go back
accept cruelty as fate
apologize for the drive of your sex
close your eyes to their blindness
