"Never coy or mincing, Liz Tilton's poems burst open our doors to swagger forth with announcements on their lips, announcements that promise a world that is at once familiar with the 'houseguests or in-laws' who threaten to live in our basements (and whose approach is denied), and yet refuses total fidelity to realism, as the speaker continues to rise above us, a 'cowgirl / hovering above the horehound ground, / leather holsters strapped with a big buckle, / helium riding high on [her] hips.' The bold, buoyant poems of Salt shimmy 'up to the mike stand' to sing our heats in forward and reverse."-Cate Marvin
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