Lindsay Illich's Fingerspell is not only a book of elegy, motherhood, and eros; it's also a book of astonishing, idiosyncratic seeing- in which knee caps are like " stone fruit," the city of Washington DC represents " the remains of an idea," grief is an accumulation of snow " into which/the heart sinks," the act of waiting " a splint//my body's wrapped against," and the sound of a running vacuum is evidence of love. I'm deeply moved by so many of these poems- by their articulations of loss and love, certainly, but also ...
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Lindsay Illich's Fingerspell is not only a book of elegy, motherhood, and eros; it's also a book of astonishing, idiosyncratic seeing- in which knee caps are like " stone fruit," the city of Washington DC represents " the remains of an idea," grief is an accumulation of snow " into which/the heart sinks," the act of waiting " a splint//my body's wrapped against," and the sound of a running vacuum is evidence of love. I'm deeply moved by so many of these poems- by their articulations of loss and love, certainly, but also their visionary hopefulness. " We are," Illich tells us, " water/pouring through letters," and an eclipse, she reminds us, has the power to lift us above our societal fury- if only momentarily." --Wayne Miller
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