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
The street is nowhere to meet someone you’ve known all your life, and of all, that broad concrete is nowhere to find your uncle
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 |