whosoever has let a minotaur enter them, or a sonnet— “wells and overflows, dissolving distinctions with a swarm of particulars. The poems are populated by minotaurs and mermaids, Pegasus and parasites, gods with too many arms, or none at all, and bodies with the ‘ribs inside out’—all allegorizations of the melding of Carr’s fundamentally hybrid writing.  

Here there is no edge between the glacier and the grass, only a combination of dance and daffodils and an environment suffused with absorption and evaporation, smoke and ether … Carr unfurls a world shot through with the embodied spiritual, a universe numinous and immanent, replete with permeated mediation. She is attuned to what translates between realms, to what ligatures bodies and what lingers at the thresholds of borders formed in the very moment of their transgression. The consciousness in Minotaur, in short, is ecstatic—standing outside itself—with both the religious and sexual valences of the word.

These poems would be religious even without their hosts of avian saints and angels and their spill of Gods because they bind us back—in the radical sense of re + ligare—to a world of inextricable entanglement. The gods here float, as they did for Pound in the azure air.”

~ Craig Dworkin