Kerrin P. Sharpe
he gave him the lungs
to open the hands
of fields and walk
through an alphabet
—‘the train kept my son breathing’
In her third collection, Kerrin P. Sharpe writes about trespass and return, the homelessness of flight, and anatomies both human and object. Her poems take the form of oblique, sometimes tragic, always powerful vignettes. These are poems that are brilliantly restless in time and place.
‘Kerrin P. Sharpe’s poems make me think of migratory birds. It’s as if they have just settled very briefly on the page after long journeys from far-off places—from Europe, from Antarctica, from other centuries.’