A book of poetry written by a woman separated from her teenage love until rediscovering each other at midlife.
Her poetry felt flat and fell far short of what the book promised. Here's one of only a few poems with which I could relate:
The Cliffs of Mistake
To know you’re making a mistake as you make it, yet not be able to stop,
is to step off a cliff, expecting to scramble backwards and up through the air
to stand on the outcrop you stepped from, even though it can’t unhappen
as you backpeddle wildly with the second step, looking far, far below
onto the moraine of pain you anticipate later, which is now only the shock
of recognizing the result there’s no leaping back from.
Oh God, and this is only a metaphor.
Might this be what metaphors are for?
To say what it’s like before you hit what it is.