Alison Luterman’s eye is on women, on children, in the streets and in the woods. Or at home alone in front of a desk. Her arms envelop love in whatever form it shows up: a cup of coffee from her husband, or the curve of a pregnant woman’s belly as she walks around the lake in flip-flops. Luterman’s poems are concerned with this and more. She is not abstract—she can’t stop telling stories. She doesn’t know how to refrain from making meaning out of scraps of beauty that she’s found. For Luterman, poetry is both a privilege and a job.