Poetry

When I was a boy, I considered becoming a nun because I didn’t want to shave part of my scalp

Into their once full garden that’s now/ close to barren, two ancient nuns shuffle/ along looking for a few late autumn blossoms/ to paint their lives.

Be praised, O Lord, for this bit of mystery, / which lifts, which lightens.

Forgive me. A mother can only hold so many scars.

You knew the names of other people’s fears because you / had plenty of your own.

Come on. Come on. Come on, now. Come on.