The poems in Robyn Hunt’s The Shape of Caught Water, published by Santa Fe’s Red Mountain Press, are of place and presence. Nelson Mandela is in a grocery store handling apples. Hunt’s husband is inside the house on a Saturday, muttering through a movie. Bob Dylan drives down the poet’s street with a woman named Betty, who can roll her own cigarettes with one hand. Where is Hunt in all this? We mostly find her cozy in not-so-cozy situations, throwing an arm across her daughter as she hits the brakes in her car, or opening herself to exploration in a way that transcends simple submission: “reach your fingers/down my throat, grope/past the lungs.” Hunt’s poems ring with internal rhyme, consonants that pop against one another, and vowels that slip like sand through her phrases. Her writing has texture:
What of missives written to the distant, transparent
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