In Muriel Leung’s Bone Confetti, the poet writes, “The body, a violin that someone is always fingering.” I am haunted by this line and all that is hidden within the spaces in between. I am haunted by this book as a work of silence, as pain, as loss, as the book written as necessity. It is a beautiful, difficult and unresolved work of art. Such is poetry. Such is life.
The voice of mother, of lover, and of friend spills from every page, charged with fierce and protective passion, a passion that is contagious because it is song. — Julie Carr
Fitzgerald’s poetics sets out to rethread fragmented personal experience, family lore, socio-cultural prohibitions and allowances, in order to bear down on staid notions of labor and the working body. What’s achieved is a historical perspective that has both sweep and depth.– Rodrigo Toscano