Kate Daniels’ poems often unfold like short stories — microcosmic narratives collated into neat, lyrical lines. What transpires in them is rarely so neat. In poems like “Autobiography of a White Girl Raised in the South,” about a chance encounter with a young girl her age, and “Doc,” about a romance extinguished before it can begin, Daniels explores the messy tug of the past, reliving the segregated South of her youth in excruciating, carefully observed detail. The title poem of her latest book, A Walk in Victoria’s Secret, begins with an epigraph from Freud and embarks on a discussion of breasts, in all their symbolic, nourishing and emotional functions, that is at times disorienting in its frankness. Other poems have a similar effect. Reading this book, you may never think of what it means to be a woman living now, in this time and place — or lingerie, for that matter — the same way again.