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I read the many and varied poems in the first three sections of Little Fish with repeated shocks of surprise and discovery — these people, these places! —, often clapping my hands inwardly with pleasure.  But the fourth section, The Swimmer, has the great power of tragedy experienced:  the dying and death of her husband, the poet Barry Goldensohn.  It is the most precisely wrenching, moving, courageously honest piece of writing I have ever read.  Everyone literate should read it.

 — Raymond Davis Oliver: poet translator, scholar

Lorrie Goldensohn’s work should long ago have been better known and widely celebrated. Open to every kind of experience, her taste for language “luscious” and “apoplexing,” and yet scouring and declarative. “I have finished knitting a perfectly brilliant sock,” she declares in one poem, as if amused by the very notion of anything—poem or sock or sentiment—“perfectly brilliant” or indisputable.  By the alternation of tenderness and a bristling dissatisfaction with lies or bullshit. Goldensohn moves with a confident embrace of sheer abundant presentness and what she calls “a fear of the death of joy.” The long elegiac sequence on the death of her husband Barry Goldensohn that ends this book comes as a gut punch and a culmination.

—Robert Boyers

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