When I loved him it felt like light / Coming out of my skin. I don’t mean this /
In a good way.
In the Boston Review, Lisa Olstein provides a lovely prelude to a sampling of devastatingly beautiful poems by Meg Freitag. Olstein writes: “This third place—between (both) real and unreal, given and taken, held and dispersed—is the zone Freitag’s work inhabits, the here that is possible only in, by, and through poems.”
