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Amy Fleury’s bewitching new choice of poems, Sympathetic Magic, unveils the on a regular basis manifestations of sympathy in addition to the connections wrought by “sympathetic magic”—that indelible tether that binds people, places, and objects across time and distance. Fleury’s lyrics journey around the landscapes of childhood and old age, body and spirit, past and future, exploring the boundless permutations of sympathy as it seems that in probably the most surprising locations. Connections reveal themselves within the aggressive silence of the small town or the round penmanship of a loved one, and echo all over the solitude and regeneration of the forest in addition to the antiseptic air of the hospital. On the center of these travels lies the narrator, stretching her limbs from the heart of the heartland, her body a compass summoning us from all directions, emphasizing with tender simplicity that “we all live under the self-same moon, regardless of the phase.”