The elder child was the immigrant family’s Chief Poisoner. Armed with a 2-4-D tank and a wickedly long plastic syringe, the dutiful assassin of dandelions, clover, ragweed, chickweed, and those nightmare garden warriors—thistles….
I read again, and again. I smile, I play. I travel. I run. I try doing math Kaimana’s way. I create peace in me as she did. I prepare for nuclear attack. The adventure of her poetry seems a life in Paradise. Reading, I dream; afterwards, these voices come to mind again, repeating echoes of the dream.
-Ibrahim Honjo, Do not write this down and Roots in the stone
Every line in Kaimana Wolff’s the witless poisoner glistens with the grit sticking to feet that actually go places, no matter how much nonsense they must stomp through. Wolff looks death right in the eye and grins, vowing to carry the “impossible egg” forward, always forward. In the grim face of the new millennium, these relentlessly accurate poems won’t take “no” for an answer.
-Eric Paul Shaffer, Portable Planet and Living at the Monastery, Working in the Kitchen