Lynn McGee’s Tracks (Broadstone Books, 2019) is divided into three sections; the first and third consist of beautiful and realistic depictions of metropolitan life through the eyes of a local. The poetry describes ordinary events witnessed while traveling through the city: “as a woman with a black eye holds her mouth taut, / moves the red tube tenderly” or the “beefy kid sprawled on the bench.” On the surface these people seem mundane, even boring. They would normally strike no interest in us. However, McGee’s poetry makes them captivating. We want to know why the woman with the black eye is applying lipstick instead of concealer, why the kid does not move to allow others to sit. McGee’s characters become real and intriguing. 

In “Women’s Long Commute,” a woman in a “scalloped sweater danc[es] as she strides / to an open seat.” Normally, we would dismiss the woman, but now we want to know more. Who is this woman? Where is she going? Is she dressed up for somebody or for herself? We are infatuated with the stranger, hypnotized by the unknown. This uncertainty allows us to notice the beauty that is present in ordinary places. 

McGee’s language does more than just make the everyday more attractive. She sometimes makes the simplest things, such as headphones, appear violent. They’re “tiny fists of plastic jammed / deep in the ear,” and the music’s “chords rippling back to caverns / where memory flares.” Seemingly harmless items, such as dancing and headphones, become dangerous. This juxtaposition between what we expect and receive creates a tension that captures our attention and leaves us satisfied.

The second section contains several elegies dedicated to McGee’s sister who died in a car crash. Instead of burdening the reader with overly sentimental lines about this tragedy, McGee undercuts the tension by reminiscing on the simpler memories of her sister, like when her sister “leapt through the camera’s flash, / blocking my pose” at her wedding, or when she “let a girl with a black eye sleep against [her] / at the airport.” The simplicity of these memories stirs the reader and encourages them to share in her grief.

February, 2021