Meghan Jackson’s poems are a series of studies of small moments, like figures of fine glass. Formerly publishing quietly under the name meghan lynch, her movements in jars is a work honed and steeled over an extended period of time, and one that many of her readers have been waiting on with bated breath. Her poems are the alabaster that captures without destroying and explores and displays without diminishing; hers is a sacred, scrying art.
“This is language poetry at its most enjoyable—sly but unpretentious, aware both of itself and of what curiously extends beyond itself. There are occasional surprises—‘walls are redder / than imagined’—but lynch records and absorbs them, along with the more familiar mason jars and crocheted afghans of her easily accessible domestic world.”—Allan Brown, Jones Av., on terrarium (2001)