Poetry

One world more than our wounds have earned.

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

Here, now, the furled leaves bid adieu

you could’ve chosen to be ignorant
to the demand that such a recognition
may’ve placed on your limbs,

And the power that buys our freedom?
The power to inflict death in our name.

He is a color I have
never thought of.

Above pew, ambo, and altar
Escape into pungent relief.

I am drawn to things
that destroy me.

Even the little dog’s mad barks

I mistake my friend for a gun, and he
offers to smuggle me out of harm.