Kay Reid's latest poetry collection Night Madre is a gorgeous panoply of astute, at once objective and yet emotional, observations, remembrances, despairs and hopes of a wise poet in the middle of her ninth decade. It begins with "Tattoos," a sort of memoir of the body after a long life full of loves, battles and each of their scars that decorate the skin. As I grow ancient, / let tattoos appear / all over my body. / I will consult them / for evidence of what I've been. And the collection ends with Ballot Box, a plea for us to come together, which seems impossible to us now, but . . . Here, no matter what positions we assume, / our faces are not far from each other. / We can muster some kind of friendship. Perhaps my favorite piece is "Why I Like Bad Poetry," Basically, I'm a friend of mistakes. / They warm my heart / like fat white pancakes / and Folgers. / It's safe to get out of bed knowing / another faultless day / of plain human error / expert self-deception / and helpless dishonesty / await me, Ha. This is an example of the thread of sage humor that weaves throughout Night Madre, as well as the matter-of-factness of the poet's voice that somehow brings comfort. Poet, love, / come with me tonight! / No more blubbering. / Just hold on hard!

-Leanne Grabel