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
Kneeling after singing made it easier to hear what the wrinkled lady with the big black bag murmured even after the choir came to
inside the steel boxes | each little soul is bantamweight | boxing the timeline | each little soul is brine | frightened |
It’s better today while we visit against the tall windows in the back of the house, looking out on the yard’s two bird feeders,