Reviewed by Mark B. Hamilton Throughout this fine collection, Mary Catherine Harper explores a labyrinth of ambiguities: between abstractions and the tangible, between personal
My father must have loved the early morning; perhaps he loved the way the light folded across the table like fresh linen in the
soft rain on the pavement of a city street fast cartwheels foot-falling down a narrow hall bottlecaps shaken in a tin my dog’s paws
But when I hear the pink fingers trailing across the silverware inside the drawer for the silverware, tracing concentric fingerprints pressed by my fingers