working as a pizza deliverer at a Greek immigrant–owned restaurant. She absorbs the life experiences and unmet dreams of her coworkers, the parking lot prostitutes, and the other homeless with whom she shares coffee refills and the warmth of the bus station terminal. Their voices, along with Jordan’s, come together in a haunting chorus that bears witness to the misery of poverty in the richest country in the world. Childhood abuse, drug use, violence, disease, and war enter into many of the stories that form this collective tale. Sometimes broken and eerie, sometimes lyrical and beautiful, and other times quirkily humorous, the poems gain an added edginess by the use of fixed forms and the re-imagining of the sonnet in the mouths of the twentieth century’s wounded and alienated. Ultimately, Jordan explores the place of beauty, verse, and narrative in helping to move us into a future in which everyone’s story is told. Tell me Chris are there nights long after the sun’s yolk has broken across the mountains’ blue ridge when time becomes so bold it crawls its way from hibernation and shimmies naked and shivering to the trees’ highest branches, when the river weeps so loud and long the fish choke on their own old sorrows, when the wild onions close their eyes one by one and the Queen Anne’s Lace fold up their blood-spotted handkerchiefs and lie down in ditch weed and sorrel the final time, nights when the steel band of your ribs tightens and your hands go cold, nights when you know you will never see Greece again. Never.

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