Every Sound is Not a Wolf by Alberto Ríos
One of Alberto Ríos’ strengths has always been his direct, frank, and open tone with the reader. In his new collection Every Sound is Not a Wolf, this strength is even more developed. The reader feels like a friend and equal to the speaker. Ríos shares his often-unusual musings plainly. It’s delightful. Many of these poems feel civic in nature. As the Poet Laureate of Arizona, maybe the public space for poetry is on Ríos’ mind. Or perhaps it's the normal outcome of the intensely-connective nature of his work with an anonymous reader. In any case, the poems leave the reader feeling like a part of a society and a world in a way that is needed at this time. They reflect a wonder at our communities, nature, the desert, and ourselves. Buy here.
From “For Six Minutes, My Mother”
On my walk I fall behind an older woman.
She is a stranger, or at least seems to be.
I am still at a small distance and can’t tell who she is.
The distance makes the lady herself smaller,
But the late afternoon angle of the sun makes her shadow large.
She walks slowly. The path is narrow.
I don’t try to pass her so as not to rush her.
In this lady’s movements, I see my mother—
In her clothing, in the shape of her, in her walk.
I do not try to pass her even when I can.
If I pass her, I know I will look at her face.
The face will not be my mother’s.
My mother has been gone for a long time now
But she has left a trail of crumbs of herself
So that I will not be lost, even without her.
So that the trail will be clear . . .
From “The Monsoon Wait”
The monsoon has come again,
But every year it loses weight,
A little older, a little slower.
It’s never as big as we remember it,
How it filled entire weekday afternoons.
Nevertheless, monsoon, this desert’s old cousin,
Still has some life in it, some party,
Coming to visit, to stir things up.
We so sad, so hot in our clothes,
So wishful of other things and places—
We have so much beach here, it’s true,
Though we also meant to ask for ocean. . . .