This book is amazing.
As an English teacher, I've read my share of poetry, but few volumes make me cry. This book touched me in an indescribable way.
The poems are hard, fierce, full of passion, but compassion--even tenderness--lies beneath the writer's brutal forays into what it means to be a woman, a lover, a mother, a sister, a daughter.
When Bigalk writes about motherhood, the diapers are full, the child is distant; about love--and empty bottles of cheap vodka. But somehow in each poem, she narrows the focus, moves beyond the surface confusion and pain to zero in on what matters, right now, about the ways we compromise, the ways we rise from the ashes, the way we recognize our own value, our own frailty, and continue to love.
So many, it seems, think of poetry as a luxury, an indulgence, but this book, "Repeat the Flesh in Numbers," is way too brutal, too loving, too much a product of this world, for the self-indulgent.
Be prepared to cheer, to laugh, to cry, to nod your head in recognition. Buy this book--read it, and read again.