Margarett Sargent was an icon of avant-garde art in the 1920s. In an evocative weave of biography and memoir, her granddaughter unearths for the first time the life of a spirited and gifted woman committed at all costs to self-expression.
At the funeral / the priest said, our sister enters the gates of paradise / in a company of angels. Mom, were you waiting? / I have no mother, your mothers gone, and / the you that lives on, me, I must learn she is / enough. From this room I see snow. Snow. Tomorrow is your / birthday. This is for you. The snow is melting. Ive built / a fire. Mom, the fingers of the dead / woman play as if in some paradise, paradise, and / your mouth pinkens to breathing red and smiles. I am here, / your daug
"Sexy, telegraphic, edgy, and rapt... Exquisitely visual, cuttingly witty, Moore's poems are at once cool and searing."-Booklist
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