In “Privileged” (p. 37), a well-balanced amalgam of these new and past elements exists. There are cameos from a Hollywood star and her uncle; her tone spins between thoughtful and assertive. Her choice to forego stanza breaks and the multitude of enjambed lines unites the stream of consciousness style. She starts in the present tense, declaring “Chocolate / is sex on the tongue,” and then quickly switches to past tense:

This is a different Sze-Lorrain: Instead of the wary child, constrained by memories, she is bolder, more certain, flirtatious. Previously, she seemed fragile, solely shaped by her history. Now she has gained authority. Certainly, part of that is her accumulation of experience, but another part is her newfound ability to own both her past and her present. The reader can now see her as a woman to admire, not only as with whom to sympathize. Still, though, her bold assertion is trailed by memories. Most remarkable is one of a “blind beggar boy” in Brussels who

This encounter with the young beggar forces her to understand what other people perceive of her. She is able to buy nice chocolates without much thought, and the realization that this is not everyone’s reality had perhaps never been presented with such blatancy. Most telling is that the title is simply “Privileged,” providing insight into the feeling that has persisted through the years.

One finishes reading this second section with the feeling that she or he has experienced someone’s evolution from childhood to adulthood. Because of this, her third and final section, “The Key Always Opens,” is a satisfying ending. The reader, after learning about the writer’s life, is introduced to the people that shape her thoughts and creative sensibilities. She writes what are essentially odes, and her subjects run the gamut from Edith Piaf to Van Gogh.

The poem to Van Gogh (“Van Gogh is Smiling,” p. 51) speaks of specific works, of his habits, and his eventual end. At the beginning, the poet writes

The reader has a feeling of sympathy — or even empathy — in this first stanza. She recognizes the absurdity and undefined nature of the word “normal.” Her proposal to “suppose” Van Gogh’s normalcy begs the question, of course, of who Van Gogh would be without absinthe or these diseases. Sze-Lorrain seems to believe he would not see yellow the same way. She continues:

Even if one has not seen the painting alluded to, its image is easily visualized. In the third and fourth lines the author suggests that these sunflowers helped the painter — and his audience — understand life, as well as its brevity. In one poem, Sze-Lorrain splendidly manages to confront both her existence as a writer and the existence of herself.

As a finale, she writes a laundry list of directions entitled “Instructions: No Meeting No World” (pp. 73-75). It is not clear if these are suggestions for living her life, or living a perfect life, or simply living. No matter the goal, the images are tangible and the tone is enchanting. The reader willingly follows Sze-Lorrain’s words through four substantial stanzas. As a sample from the first stanza:

Though different in style from many of the poems throughout Water the Moon, the finale of this lucid debut is precisely what it needs to be. It is assertive and playful, echoing her newfound boldness in “Dear Paris,” but conscious and controlled, evoking her very aware but relatively fragile sense of self in “Biography of Hunger.” The reader has witnessed her grow and evolve as a person; her self-reflection has garnered his or her trust.

Sze-Lorrain displays her life with candor and vitality. She enriches thoughts and stories with understated style and tangible description. Throughout the three sections, the audience sees the evolution, most simply, of a little girl contained and defined by her past to a woman freed by Paris and creativity, willing to share her journey with the world.