Suggestions begins with “Open parenthesis” and ends with “Close parenthesis”. How did this choice of macro-punctuation come to be?

I originally called the collection (Suggestions) with the parentheses in the title, but that seemed too cutesy. Titling the opening and closing poems that way felt more natural, with both poems also being sectioned off by a blank page. I wanted those two poems to be in conversation with each other as bookends for the collection. Both include people and how the natural world to informs our lives. But the opener has the additional task of being a bit of a primer for how to read the collection. It’s conversational, it’s telling you that there will be a lot of mixed emotions, random facts, some humour, nature and people will intersect at odd angles, and time will be preserved yet also march forward. The opening poem also gives a straightforward response to why I titled the collection Suggestions, though the reader might discover below-the-surface reasons for the title.

(I also think of parentheticals as whispers or asides. Fragments that do not take up much bandwidth. And this collection is a humble world of its own. It knows that its readers are busy, that galaxies are doing more important things like whirling and colliding, that time has different meanings for different sentient beings and particles. These suggestions are saying that they won’t take up too much space.)

It seems to me that animals and various wildlife intrigues are sprinkled throughout this book. How might you describe your relationship with (or place in) the animal kingdom?

I’ve been fortunate to be close to nature on a daily basis. I live near the forest, near the ocean, and beside a small mountain. When I was writing these poems, my youngest son and I were reading a lot of books about animals and weather and watching nature documentaries. We also went on a lot of hikes. So all of that is baked into these poems. I also am aware of how self-referential we are as a species. When a catastrophe happens, we think of it in terms of human lives lost and neglect to factor in other life forms. I don’t claim to speak for the trees, but I hope that these poetic cameos by non-human entities will broaden the spectrum through which we view the world.

In some ways, this feels like a book of moments. Did you experience any new and notable moments during the writing of Suggestions?

I wrote poetry in my angsty teens and early twenties–there are crossed-out remnants of one in a bonkers poem I titled “Love poem written at 23, revised by the middle-aged gardener I have become”–but took a decades-long hiatus. I did other things and when I returned to writing, I wrote fiction. Then, a few summers ago, I decided to quit hiding behind some of these personas I’d created. All of these moments that had been pent-up and came out in a frenzy in the prose poem format. So this experience of writing a collection was the new thing, even as I was writing about old things.

In one of my favourite of the suggestions “The day my son heard about mortality”, you mention driving (among other things). Do you feel like your collection (or any of the suggestions) takes the reader for a drive? If so, where are you taking us?

What a great question, though perhaps I’m the wrong person to ask. To be honest, I’m not sure I’m the one in the driver’s seat. Or if I am, I’m driving subconsciously. Hopefully there are no poetry cops on the road.

All I can say is, perhaps by being personal, whether I am sharing an uncomfortable moment or discussing my hermit uncle or compiling the evidence I needed in to order to be brave enough to consider a first kiss, people might bring their own experiences to those verses and fill in the gaps. So we all may be in the same vehicle, but I don’t think we’re all necessarily seeing the same things on the journey. I might be checking the rear-view mirror on a rainy day. You might be peering out the windshield on a sunny one.

What is next for Aaron Rabinowitz?

I am working on more poems, a memoir, a novel, and making my kids breakfast.