Do Oceans Have Underwater Borders?: poems from a sun-bleached folder

Dip into this book anywhere to find a glittering gem formed out of compressed language. The collection is small but its range, like that of the whales in its title poem, is vast, from the perturbations of love, the dark secrets of hotel beds, the agonies of wing-clipped angels, to the crucial role that beetles, those ‘colonizers of death, always first to arrive at a crime scene, ’ play in assisting forensic entomologists. Quirky, brilliant, funny-the intelligence at work here is impressive. I’m reminded of Szymborska. But Rose Mary Boehm has staked a beguiling, seductive claim on the English language that is all her own.

-George Bilgere, Author of Blood Pages

Rose Mary Boehm has lived many lives in many places, and writes them all, including those that were lived in her imagination. She slips from location to autobiography to persona, mixing secrets, stories and events as if she were dealing cards in the casino of life. This is the work of a mature woman, rich in experience, who speaks several languages, including the language of the heart.

-Ruth Bavetta, Author of four poetry collections, including No Longer at This Address

Rose Mary has visions that can only be seen in a cracked mirror. Or through a broken window that looks all the way inside the heart. These are stained-glass elegies for a woman loved by men who would pay fifteen hundred dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for a soul. The poet retains her soul. Refuses the money. Lives beyond a torn veil, the bridal one and the mourning kind. Moves on from a life of restraining orders, clarifies a vision blurred by alcohol. She transcends. The poem folder may be bleached but the poet gleams.

-Alan Catlin, Editor Misfit Magazine