Early in her novel, Fontaine writes, “. . .the grey skin of a man who is too young for the varnished wooden box with its gilt pattern and golden handles” (13). A beautiful and tragic sentence, which in many ways sums up this slim novel. It isn’t so much a novel but more a collection of prose poems about the life of a reservation. The characters, if that is the right terms, are nameless and, for the most part faceless, but that makes it more […]