Thaisa Frank weaves short narratives together into a meditation upon the gleaming fragments of memory that make up private history.
“I know my mother the way I know the air. I know her the way I know cats who come for an evening and then live on. I know her the way I know a garden in Kansas, over thirty years ago, brimming with lilacs and a rough stone birdbath.” (from “Eating”).
At their best, the stories have the evocative, layered ambiguity of good poetry.
—Don Skiles, The San Francisco Chronicle
Frank’s own voice could be said to occupy the shadowy land between poetry and prose–at times strong in narrative, more often fantastic, transfixed by the possibilities of metaphor.
—William Ferguson, The New York Times Book Review