Book Signing + Poetry Reading

Sally Albiso's Moonless Grief

June 28, 2018
at 7pm

Join us for a free poetry reading from Sally's new full-length poetry collection, Moonless Grief, published by MoonPath Press.

Relationships, nature, art, love, loss, and beauty---all come to the forefront in the exquisitely rendered poems of Sally Albiso's Moonless Grief.
Sally Albiso earned a BA in Spanish from UCLA and an MA in English with a creative writing emphasis from San Diego State University. While at SDSU, she studied with the poets Glover Davis and Carolyn Forché and completed a thesis of her own poetry.
 
After receiving her master’s degree, she taught English composition, creative writing, and English as a Second Language at Chapman College, San Diego State University Extension, and Southwestern College.
​In 2003, Albiso and her husband moved from California to the North Olympic Peninsula of Washington State, where she returned to writing poetry. She has published three chapbooks: Newsworthy (Camber Press, 2009), The Notion of Wings (Finishing Line Press, 2015), and The Fire Eater and the Bearded Lady (Finishing Line Press, 2016). A full-length collection will be released by MoonPath Press in 2018. Honors include the Jeanne Lohmann Poetry Prize, The Comstock Review’s Muriel Craft Bailey Memorial Award, the Robert Frost Foundation Poetry Award, the Camber Press Poetry Chapbook Award, and nominations for the Pushcart Prize. Her poems have appeared in Blood Orange Review, Common Ground Review, Crab Creek Review, Floating Bridge Review, Pontoon: an anthology of Washington State poets, Rattle, and The Comstock Review, among others.

​Copies of Moonless Grief will be available to purchase.

                                                       Cantor

Long ago, wolves sang here
with such triumph they were destroyed.
Now coyotes penetrate the dark
with their hunger, reach through glass--
and this hour’s supplication still greater,
its tenor both animal and human.
Is it the Sasquatch of local lore
bellowing as if to make ears bleed?
Roosting among cedars like a bird
crying out for another of its kind,
bipedal stance encouraging a tongue
that ladles words?
Or can it only hoot and scream,
be taught to sign with furred hands
that shatter a two-way mirror?
The howling continues to gnaw at wind.
I lean toward the voice,
let it wash over me like a moonless grief,  
listen as if I might answer.