by Frances Richey
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by Jeffrey Toobin
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"Relentlessly heartfelt and stringently beautiful, Frances Richey's poems recall us to a cycle we should never forget: the only way into the world is through the family; the only way into the family is through the self; the only way into the self is through the world. On page after page . . . we confront words born of necessity: nothing trivial or tossed off, everything wrenched and crafted from the rock of felt thought. The realms of other art-Renoir, Giacometti, Vermeer-feed Richey's perception, but she never forgets her obligation to have her own difficult making be foremost."-Stephen Corey
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