“The subtle revelations about history, land, culture, and grief in Karen Kevorkian’s third poetry collection, Quivira, are framed by movement: a passing coyote, ‘Against white snow the brown movement / absorbed by dark tangles of winter deadleaf,’ a pilgrim’s journey beneath the ‘Andromeda galaxy old / sidelying universe,’ a recounting of Kumeyaay practices, ‘for the pine nut harvest taking two days on burro and foot / up a shallow valley of silver sage and red shank,’ traveling by car through an arid landscape, ‘On hwy 40 crossing Arizona / shallow volcanic cones . . . soft pink earth eroding from a cliffside / announces a mesa’s beginning.’ Her descriptions, mostly unbound by punctuation and often shifting in time and place, are painterly and exact...”