"Reading Arlene Weiner's poems is like walking down a long hall opening doors. Behind each door is a tableau: two girls sit on a bed eating chocolates; a bird moves like a flamenco dancer; a mother and daughter cut radishes; two women in an Automat are overheard talking about sex; an old woman makes an entrance, belting out a song like a showgirl. But as we move from room to room, strange questions occur to us: Does the bird move like a flamenco dancer, or does the flamenco dancer move like a bird? And why is God lounging on the sofa while nations are at war and Terror tap-dances down the stairs? Weiner's poems seem like bits of stories from her past, but they won't stay in their pretty containers." -Michael Simms, founder of Autumn House Press and Vox Populi