Sharp Teeth
by Toby Barlow
(Harper)
In a cheeky nod to epic poetry, Barlow’s début novel is written entirely in free verse and concerns a metamorphosis, of humans into wolves, in Los Angeles. No slaves to the moon, these postmodern lycanthropes do a thousand situps at a time and choose when to “self-ignite.” (There are lapses: a grease-sensitive type inadvertently commits a massacre at Popeye’s.) The story involves a white-collar pack run by a Sun Tzu-style strategist that operates like a cross between a ruthless law firm and the Lakers; a plot to infiltrate animal shelters and high-end bridge tournaments; and a dog catcher who unknowingly falls in love with a werewolfess. Barlow deftly sketches the L.A. landscape—stucco, sun beating through smog, tract-home meth labs, fresh-cut lawns that “hiss with wealth,” freeways that devour hours of life—and metes out his tale in noirish koans: “Watch any man’s eyes / at the bounce of a ball. / His head tilts slightly sideways, just a hair, / as a primitive focus / comes to life.”
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