Poetry

and all floating implementsstar studded saintsand gemstone dreamsmoon smoke      incensesquandered speechhearts that have wanderedstrangers squinting at the skythe cello notes risinglight escaping through a crack in the walldandelion fluff on a newborn’s headowl windthe old woma

You fold this sweater the way a mothbuilds halls from the darkness it needsto go on living—safe inside this closet a family is gathering for dinner, cashmerewith oil, some garlic, a little salt, litand wings warmed by mealtime stories about flying at night into small firesgrazing on

I speak bones to you in the morning—hollow, fragile, ordained frameworks,their marrow winnowed by earth time. I hear emptiness in my pleas for health,forgiveness, prosperity. Echoes ossifywhere blood once pulsed and built. Like the half-attentive spouse who’s learnedto monotone

One February morning, pausebetween kitchen and dining roomto weep at Belle and Sebastiansinging about God. The cold is goodfor maple syrup, makes sap run,you aren’t sure how, or why this pretty popsong makes you snivel and drip like a cuttwig. You’ve seen God on Bisson street,God in a bi

There stood by me this night the angel of God       Acts 27:23 I have no fear of storms since I heard His voice—my Accuser crying out of the sun.While I am chained in the shivering hold,the others cower and bleat to Baal.But no fury can last. Light finds a way—it

What milk      what honey you were promised gall       in ZionKiss the weeping wall’s cheek       love       sows salt in Zion It’s the recurring dream       of all      &nb

I hung my soul to dry on a fence post near the property line,Just out of sight. Days passed, rains came; it stiffenedSmall black spots grew bit by bitThen it was past rescue and fraying.But I was angry for what she cost me, and now the trouble of repairAnd then to wear such a tattered, raggy th

Ursula, shot dead, marched the ten thousandvirgins, just walked them! with the pope in towto say she could or to prove maybe thatthe purity of youth was worth the shockof Huns beheading them, each and everyone, as God’s synchronicity seems tobargain lives away in those old stories, leavin

You can’t say hand without picturing either a rightor a left. You can’t think moon withoutseeing it in one of its phases.When the arrowheads riseto the surface after the winter rainsyou can’t say again. This is a first discovery for these individual flints.The arrowheads have