Poetry

Her joy lashed me. I felt my every edge whittled.

reaching for Teresa reaching for Thérèse reaching for Teresa reaching for the utter center of the divine diamond fruit, an arrow into flame

Surely now, the Blessed Virgin would cure Aunt Rose of polio.

There comes a day When you realize That some people are temporary.

maybe we love them because they can hurt us.

In Knossos there was no way to write love