Bellocq's Ophelia by Natasha Trethewey is a complete novel told in a series of verses inspired by the early 1900 E. J. Bellocq photographs of prostitutes in the red-light district of new Orleans. Bellocq's Ophelia is the imaginative and original tale of a woman who's brothel Madame tells her to act like statue on display for the male patrons of the establishment. Bellocq - April 1911: There comes a quiet man now to my room--/Papa Bellocq, his camera on his back./He wants nothing, he says, but to take me/as I would arrange myself, fully clothed--/a brooch at my throat, my white hat angled/just so--or not, the smooth map of my flesh/awash in afternoon light. In my rom/everything's a prop for his composition--/brass spittoon in the corner, the silver/mirror, brush and comb of my toilette./I try to pose as I think he would like--shy/at first, then bolder. I'm not so foolish/that I don't know this photograph we make/will bear the stamp of his name, not mine.

These poems seem tense, circumscribed, hemmed in. Although not strictly speaking "nostalgic" they come too close. There is a cramped, careful almost fussy feeling to the writing. Why write poetry to this effect?

Domestic Work is that rare creation, a collection that will appeal to non-poets as well as to the most dedicated student of poetry. That's because Trethewey uses her translucent talent to create poems that are clear, poems that say something interesting, poems that stay with you. If you've never thought you would want to read a book of poetry, start here. If you've worked on your poetry craft for years and want to savor a master poet, buy this book. If you want to experience first-hand the special joy and pain of being mixed race, Trethewey will lead you to understand. Any poetry collection that doesn't include Domestic Work isn't complete.

Natasha Trethewey has won the Grolier Poetry Prize and her individual pieces have been widely published in a variety of places. Domestic Work is the debut collection of her poetry and will well serve to introduce her work to a whole new audience of appreciative readers. Housekeeping: We mourn the broken things, chair legs/wrenched from their seats, chipped plates,/the threadbare clothes. We work the magic/of glue, drive the nails, mend the holes./We save what we can, melt small pieces/of soap, gather fallen pecans, keep neck bones/for sou. Beating rugs against the house,/we watch dust, lit like stars, spreading/across the yard. Late afternoon, we draw/the blinds to cool the rooms, drive the bugs/out. My mother irons, singing, lost in reverie./I mark the pages of a mail-order catalog,/listen for passing cars. All day we watch/for the mail, some news from a distant place.