Poetry

maybe she woke up, a piece of manna in her bony fist

The dove calls in a voice softer
Than the kiss of holy water

Rest well, Linda, of the teased, peroxided hair

if this is how you treat your friends

I am always imploring you to tell me, beloved, if you have left me forever?

I’d hear Mom groan, The Messiah, again?

a son hot from the womb
but cold to his kiss

One world more than our wounds have earned.

​​​​​​​There are roses in the thorny crown, pick them!