Unlike Frost, who stopped himself from entering the woods out of fear, Taransky’s latest sends her headlong into darkness and deepness:
Waiting at the gate for you
To fall having already forgotten
How you swore the sentence
Was meant to
Be joined with
Charged by their contradiction, Taransky's woods are a place of concealment and revelation, a place where "we have a machine / We cannot explain." And hauntingly, they are the same place that allows her to arrive at the words she is seeking as she moves through them: "I am looking for a language / With a word that means / We must see it all / Differently." As her poems begin to grow in length and urgency, Taransky brings readers to a place of absence, demonstrating the effects of deforestation and the demand for fuel upon a community who knows "war increases their / Need for wood."
Her unflinching look at a natural world humans nurture and destroy—while attempting to stop themselves from "using the chair" created from wood "as a metaphor"—strikes at the heart of Taransky’s irreconcilable use of the word sorry. If readers will admit to themselves that "the best tree / Is sick now" and "discuss / Where to look,” it’s imperative in these poems that another admittance is how “that sickness is the other / Sickness."