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In Now Calls Me Daughter Christine Jones brilliantly flattens time to lament her beloved mother's Alzheimer's, and to celebrate the mother Now. These poems trace the tributaries of the quotidian to become achingly more surreal. They pulse with the wildness of fisher cats. And yes, these poems have us contemplating the space we call time, so we all might be the boy who "finds it at low tide." To enter these poems is to hold closer that family member about to "voyage home in her black church shoes." These verses know that they cannot "topple aging's cairn" while doing the magnificent work of staying "alert to the shifting, how it records itself by light."

- Eileen Cleary, author of 2 a.m. with Keats

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