“Betty Adcock writes with a gift that links the visual acuity of Bishop with the verbal muscle of Dickey. In an age of blurred authorial voices, Adcock remains singular, the reader’s best ally, the steward of a supreme innocence. There are only a handful of American poets in her class.”
Jacar Press, 2014
I find in these poems a brilliant poet writing at the peak of her craft, her lyric voice surviving, piercingly beautiful as so sharpened into elegy.
But there was no word in earth's house.
Bare branches held the crooked sky
without story or prophecy, and the stone
was a deaf mirror.