Poetry

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

Snowflakes surprise us,small and aimless as we ourselves,so light they sift upwardsin random puppetry. Yesterday we arrived in Englandon the edge of April.Workers in orange suitshad de-iced the plane in Chicago. As we’d changed planesin Dublin, yellow hoses uncoiledon juddering machi

At dawn the panther of the heavens peers over the edge of the world.She hears the stars gossip with the sun, sees the moon washing her leandarkness with water electrified by prayers. All over the world there are thosewho can’t sleep, those who never awaken. My granddaughter sleeps on the

It always seems to be night—our floatingThrough darkness, the clouds parted likeCurtains woefully. We take to twilightLike children on the road back fromSomewhere, past places that are scarcelyThere even in sheer daytime. LackingTrysts, travelers weave their own bareSteps out amongst the fores