Sylvia Chan, though I pray her poem is not confessional, takes after the more acclaimed confessionalist Mrs. Plath in her incredible ability to express horrific events and traumatic emotions. The latter labels may conjure in one’s head one of the many melodramatic ink slicks currently clogging old father poesy’s gills, but seeing how rare it is for me to be actually disturbed by anything I read (Homes’ Alice or Nabakov’s Ada), I am extremely impressed by not only this poem’s construction, but its ability to hold and horrify in such a sparse and purposely elusive manner.
All His Eye is Meant For
