Not an easy read, and not something you can pick up, put down, read a few pages and come back to a day or two later. Ms. Bang has a unique voice and way with words -- you need to read a few of the poems before you get a sense of what's going on, and then you need to go back and reread what you've already done before you can continue. Even with concentrated reading and re-reading, I felt that I was getting only brief glimpses of Louise and her world. But the glimpses are often beautiful, and after a while they start to cohere into patterns of images, feelings, atmospheres, the outline of a narrative. There are enough exquisite turns of phrase ("His mouth was the yes that was wished on") to make the journey worthwhile, as it seems to be for Louise and her companions, even if the destination is obscure.

I really enjoy this book. Why do I like it? The language is sufficiently varied and sparkling and occasionally--every three poems or so--hits absolutely dead on, knocking out my wind. That's a pretty good ratio because I work out and don't easily get winded.
I think that Ms. Bang's found a decent form for her this go-round, seeing as when poems 'get all weird' a lot of readers just say, "Phew, what is this? Hey writer open a window and talk to healthy human beings fer crying out loud." But having a speaker--neurotic, stricken by love (that soon-to-be addition to the DSM-V) saying or thinking all that stuff--it just makes for a better story and the reader can get a handle on sympathetic literary characters. All that stuff coming directly from the persona of the poet, on the other hand, just makes me feel like I'm eavesdropping on a mutterer.
Berryman, toward whom Ms. Bang has suitably mixed feelings but owes a debt, Berryman found all that out after getting into Shakespeare's plays so much, in my humble opinion.
This is a terrific book and it is a book and not just a bunch of poems.

As Peter Lorre would have said, "you're choking." There's a lot to appreciate here: the poems are carefully made. One could wish for a little less prudishness, if that's the right word; there's a self-protective mechanism at work in the poetry that keeps meaning in one corner and language in another. Well, okay, but Bang can do better, and will, I am sure.

There isn't a single poem in this scrupulously crafted first book that won't fascinate and rejuvenate even the most jaded reader of poetry. Look forward to Apology for Want: you have been waiting for it. It will restore your faith in the ambitious American lyric.

I LIKEN JO BANG'S SYNTAX TO A SCHIZOPHRENIC TRIPLE ESPRESSO LEARNING THE LANGUAGE OF ESPERANTO. I FELT SOME TONGUE-IN-CHEEK HUMOR PEEK OUT FROM SOME OF THE POEMS. I WAS BAFFLED EVEN AFTER THE THIRD READING OF THE BOOK AS TO HOW I WAS GOING TO GETT OFF ON HER METAPHORS, BUT I DON'T THINK THIS IS HER MAIN INTENTION, AS MUCH AS CONJURING ORIGINAL WAYS OF NARRATING.