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Excerpt from Fishers of Men:
The Last Photograph
In the small photograph my mother has her eyes closed. I am shapeless, rather pale probably two. There is snow. My sister has a sled. It is only a year before my mother will abandon me to be beaten, brainwashed. For years I was sure that she despised that shapeless creature until I looked carefully and realized I'd been buried in the snow up to the armpits. She was sitting there, eyes closed that thing that had been her daughter already a part of the landscape, her mind already gone.
|Publisher:||Red Hen Press|
|Product dimensions:||6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.40(d)|
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
These poems are bursting with a beautiful and unusual mixture of brutality and hope. There is an invulnerable face most commonly evident in these poems, yet that face has a vulnerable streak that is all the more touching when I catch it. One might call these confessional poems, but that would seem too whispy, too light. It seems more that these poems follow you down the street while you try to keep your eyes forward, pretending that you notice nothing, while the poems holler obscenities and exclamations at you. Kate Gale's poetry has a force and style all its own. They fascinate.