I always want poetry to speak to me, to move me, to pinpoint and give words to my existence, but more often than not, I’m left reading a poem, scrunching up my eyebrows, attempting to read it a second time then saying, “Never mind. If they couldn’t get it on the first pass, it’s not there.”
But Fisk’s poetry is there. There’s no eyebrow scrunching only chuckles, heart pangs, heavy sighs and frequent, softly muttered wows.
If you’re tired of poetry and want to see it as it was intended to be, here you go.