In spite of the degree to which I use the word “fuck” in all its forms in my vocabulary, poetry-wise I am a prude. I don’t even really write about amore much at all, much less the sexy aspect of it. I am so very impressed by the sensual poems that Amy MacLennan has in her new collection The Body, A Tree. Listen to this: “…a molasses of lovemaking,/ we poured ourselves on to each other/then in….” And hear the mm’s and ticks in this: “I kiss your palm, ten more/minutes, I imagine your hands/covered in oil, every speck/of me slicked…” Yikes. I’m blushing. But I admire how she’s, if you’ll pardon the expression, “pulling this off.” She’s “doing it” with a “light hand.” Ugh, see? I’m embarrassed, so fall to winking and nudging like some victim of St. Vitus’s Dance. Anyway, a fine, sensuous collection. Lick it up.