"Reading Arlene Weiner's poems is like walking down a long hall opening doors. Behind each door is a tableau: two girls sit on a bed eating chocolates; a bird moves like a flamenco dancer; a mother and daughter cut radishes; two women in an Automat are overheard talking about sex; an old woman makes an entrance, belting out a song like a showgirl. But as we move from room to room, strange questions occur to us: Does the bird move like a flamenco dancer, or does the flamenco dancer move like a bird? And why is God lounging on the sofa while nations are at war and Terror tap-dances down the stairs? Weiner's poems seem like bits of stories from her past, but they won't stay in their pretty containers." 

—Michael Simms, founder of Autumn House Press and Vox Populi

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