The Butcher's Apron

That same clarity of vision and illuminating substance pervades this "new and selected" volume, which gathers together the long awaited "Greed: Part 14" along with all Wakoski's poems "written over the years concerning food and drink", as the poet explains in her introduction, "and the beauty that I have discovered through these subjects".

Plath imagined blood red tulips in white hospitals as I think of Georgia O'Keefe's poppies. My mother who voted for Nixon and hates foreigners dreams of those red and white cans which might hold Chicken Noodle or Tomato soups. She's never heard of Andy Warhol who mimicked such cans, just as a butcher I talked to in our Michigan supermarket said that he had never eaten shrimp, or knew what people did with oxtails. His apron too had the same bright red stains, not yet faded into rust. Crimson blood on canvas, the art of childhood. Unhealed scars, still capable of bleeding.

Contemplating her past -- "the exploration of Diane through her Western beach girl persona, her Medea-life, to her final snaky Medusa self" -- Wakoski honestly confronts her "Greed for Purity", comes to terms with "aging, living in the Midwest", and learns, "partly through the aesthetics of food and drink, to live a kind of 'still-life.'"