(a) Lullaby Without Any Music

Poetry. These etched words take flight into the everyday of husbands and birds, crystalline reflection and self-possessed repose. Bartlett’s poems sparkle with unadorned being and sardonic becoming. Till we become ourselves in their reflection, refigured as beauty.–Charles Bernstein

The crosshatch of love, place and domesticity. A woman wearing, then shedding, the identities of body, mother, wife, daughter, bird and lover. Jennifer Bartlett’s (A) LULLABY WITHOUT ANY MUSIC proves, once again, that she is the nightingale in the city, and we are all richer for it.–Maryrose Larkin