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The sharing that Gail McConnell offers of the grief of seeing, as a child, her father shot dead in front of their raw feels very precious and intimate.
Running over a little over 100 pages you can encounter it as a whole, but each page can also be a poem in itself – there is both/and within the form as there are many layers of dichotomy within the content.
It resists simplistic interpretations, and it resists a reduction of her father’s life to the moment or manner of his death.
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