I cannot name each poem, line, or stanza here. I wish I could. Claudine’s command of language, imagery, enjambment, and metaphor is sometimes gentle, and sometimes like a boxer punching for that final round. Her words are economical, providing the most bang for each uttered syllable, and they weave a tapestry of transformation from beginning to inevitable end.
In the titled poem, “Parts per Trillion,” she pulls the reader into the atomic level of pain and loss within:
“After passing another morning/with you in mind,/it strikes me how I may only/be one whisker away/from the Dachshund who/detects illness brewing/beneath his handler’s skin,/from the Lab who smells time/through the decline of her human’s/odors across the course/of the morning hours./I confess how easily/I could be found sniffing/at staircases like this,/tracking the past in parts/per trillion.”