She's brilliant, actually, savage & yes, passionate... & the author of one of the most devastating poems I've yet encountered - below.
It is incandescent w/grief & rage & yet meticulously structured, which IMO only magnifies its impact. & it's pinned into place w/ words that strike echoes of other well known poems of loss & lament that others have posted here lately.
Look - if you can bear it - at how her words pick up the famous repetitions of an Caoineadh Airt Uí Laoghaire : [ The Lament for Arthur O'Leary; see also Child Of Our Time]
my lamb, my calf, my eaglet,...tho here the litany of affectionate images, pet names, is spoken by a mother, rather than the widow mourning her husband or the sister, her brother.
my cub, my kid, my nestling,
my suckling, my colt.
& note too (in a coincidence of timing that I've seen more than once in this strangely bewitched space called s.c.i.) echoes of MacDonogh's images [She Walked Unaware] - tho in reverse time: - wild birds & other creatures - October - months of promise - images of a love-bed & fields - bright flames & low fires & desolation...
But as you've said in another thread, Laura - everyone's encounter w/ a poem is unique & personal, tho we can try to grapple w/ & share the the experience .... so now I'll step back out of the way of this one.
The Man Who Was Marked By Winter
The Gallery Press, 1991