Reviewed by Anna Scotti francine j. harris’s third collection, here is the sweet hand, is a messy compilation, a demonstration of the poet’s exhaustive
How to keep passion alive until the end, on fire— I can’t find the flint, the matches, so it’s back to Neruda again,
My mother crouches at the end of the pier with a serrated knife, cutting into the flesh of a stingray my cousin gigged by
—for Lyn Hopper When I wake too early and hope and wait for more sleep, and dawn, a coyote, sneaks up on eloquent birds,