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In Amelia Martens’ chapbook, Clatter, Christmas is “a purgatory for fathers: / a landscape void of complete satisfaction,” and Santa Claus “dreams of a vodka cloud / that he rides to his mother-in-law’s house.” Wry and compassionate, Martens’ lyrical poems are a perfect companion to our contemporary experience: “Toys have come to the end of their time; now / everyone wants a screen, a beam to shine in their eyes.”