In wry, compelling narrative wanderings through the ever-changing landscapes of Europe, Miller discovers that it is she who seems exotic, foreign, a stranger to herself, “unsure of how to use a body after life inside the eye.” Language becomes misunderstanding, past lovers blur with new ones, a Mickey Rourke film is washed out of the mouth with Petrarch. With humor and poignant meditation, these poems describe a woman’s life in flight, and desire always catching up with her.
A book of hungers sated and unsated, a compendium of erotic surprise. The voracious yet airy command of the book’s title, its synesthesia of appetite and vision, aptly suggests the sensual world of Miller’s sophisticated narratives. At once urgent and urbane, intimate and grand, gravid and luscious, her poems offer delight and sustenance as they illuminate the largest questions. Eat Quite Everything You See is, quite simply, a feast.
Taking a bite out of life is daunting and thrilling, as Miller’s sage new poems show. Eat Quite Everything You See follows Miller’s steps–in all their imaginative, thoughtful, stumbling elegance–toward an unexpected goal: not marriage, not children, but an intelligently measured inner journey.
Aptly named, Eat Quite Everything You See is concerned with the various desires for sex, children, companionship and other ineffables. The force and lack of specificity of her needs drive the speaker across Europe, mostly through France, spurred by the Derridean epigraph “What is at stake is an adventure of vision,” telling new stories and retracing those from her past. These densely narrated quests wind around a center of loss, their complexity an attempt to avoid the fate of Miller’s begonias: “They’d grow anywhere, and they did… grew well in a stony place and were bright. When I turned them over, the spade found no roots.