Unravel

Chris Knight is the senior movie reviewer at the National Post.

Reading Tammy Armstrong’s poetry is like running into waist-deep water
on a warm day—the language forces you to slow down, but it is also
immensely refreshing. The author’s second collection of poetry (her
first, Bogman’s Music, was short-listed for a Governor General’s
Literary Award) is full of deceptively short, simple works that defy
easy analysis. “After Snake River Canyon Jump” tells of the dotage
of a certain motorcycle daredevil without once using the words Evel or
Knievel, but instead employing such evocative phrases as “let the
rhinestones / glitter to envy flashbulb spray.” In “The Hill Where
It Sits,” “it” is a candy factory, elliptically yet unmistakably
described in the opening lines: “Candied air glosses the town / spins
sugar over the closed-down shops.” These 46 works recall far-off
memories of place, but also the people who are inextricably linked to
those remembrances—the “carpal tunnel cashier,” the grocer’s
“popsicle-stained children,” the roofer’s wife, “loose-breasted,
beautifully run-down.” Sometimes there are cheeky promises not kept:
“Why I Don’t Own Garden Gnomes” doesn’t quite answer the
question. But like cooling water, it’s still fun to dive into.