There is no word for small reflections that run away from the surface of water - the golden specks Klimt painted over his faces. Gleamts is a collection full of things that don't have precise names: the feeling of becoming your mother, the calm of an old rock, the mildly damaged readiness for a new life. In four chapters, Irene Riz charts the territory between two poles: a mother dies, a granddaughter is born. Between these events, a woman moves through forests, oceans, and cities; through grief, wonder, solitude, and love. The poems are intimate and observant, rooted in the physical world - gravel underfoot, a lizard on a rock, light through branches - and open to what cannot quite be named. Forty-six poems. Four chapters. One voice.
