In The Small Blades Hurt, Erica Dawson picks up where her debut collection, Big-Eyed Afraid, leaves off: "The world's outside. I'm in." She moves from her border state Maryland to the true South, the Midwest, and back, delivering poems where a single dance's story can tangle with America's collective past. Dawson finds a home in the tradition of formal poetry, carving a place all her own, whether manic, yet cozy, in a poem with only one rhyme, or calm in a crown of sonnets' claustrophobia. Everything from Al Green to Abraham Lincoln is fair game. No matter the form, as Dawson eyes nuances of...