The National Catholic Review



  • December 7-14, 2015
    It is still Easter, though we are aground this monster’s back, tethered to its tail. This is still an island, as it rises in swells, falls in troughs, follows wanton tides. Still a mooring, a port enough for our feast. Our Lord is still risen. Still our hearts that burn and yield a Sabbath. A sun pierces overhead. Still our basket of a boat, shearwater seeking the Isle of the Blessed. And here at the foot of the rood we planted, between the scales, a silent nest.
  • November 30, 2015

    We kiss the person we love last thing before

    the coffin is shut

    —Jack Gilbert

    You lean across the coffin’s gunwale to kiss

    your father before the rower launches into

    that long, last voyage to purgatory, while we,

    survivors, walk and drive onto streets of dailyness,

    having forgotten that around some corner


  • November 23, 2015
    I How to feel his death? On the street. The shots. My friend’s scream. One cracked the air, the other pierced the thin veil, a usual evening returning from somewhere, returned from many times before. When I look for where to fix the broken city that I love, the whole tower wobbles. What the government hasn’t done. What the gunmen’s’ parents didn’t do. What hands the drug lords forced. What? What I haven’t done with my puny song? And now: the sirens. And now: the neighbors say, “Did he resist?”...
  • November 16, 2015
    Then the Lord stretched out His hand and touched my mouth… Jer 1:9 render me null & voice may I not be fallen noise listener up there tune your air & liquid tongue let your unsung devouring mouth give birth to these words lavish & ludicrous an unwalled museum a windowed mausoleum
  • November 16, 2015
    O unnamed & only son too soon slipped from tender clutch of unripe body from cursed branch I will hang what’s left of you until you bloom into bone unnamed & only aviary of ribcage I will play what is reft from me & cradle the hole what is singing
  • November 2, 2015
    Inside this monument a rain it doesn’t want, coming by with winds and the flag this way and that reaching out as if the war ended smelling from all your letters home wet—they had to be wet, scented with thunder and kisses left on the ground, already this harvest—stones becoming other stones and blood that no longer returns to your heart.
  • October 26, 2015

    The scary night owl

    Flew to the moon for cheese

    To put on its pizza.

    It left the moon

    A banana.

  • October 19, 2015
    as a child I dreamed of small places sleeping in dresser drawers hiding in cabinets thinking about tunnels I loved the story of Moses how he hid in a cleft in the rock behind the hollow of God’s hand now in the city I lose myself in thought standing on the subway platform wondering if I would fi t into the niche in the tunnel wall covered by an unseen hand while the fury passes by
  • October 12, 2015
    As Eddie Fisher catches fire, diamonds draw flame; Scotch tumbles over rims like water in wells Precious stones ring; like each pearl string, eight grooms hung bells. Bows on blue-boxed Tiffany tongues thank your name; Mere mortals, fans all, clamor and glamour becomes one same: Celebrity, fashion, lights, Oscar, and Hollywood shame; Self! I go my way! And the starlit starlet walks with fame, Crying: Darling, what I do is for fans, for them I came.

    I say more: the splendid...
  • October 5, 2015

    We will live on a paved street or a rough Alley left between walls, almost forgotten, Or on the bank of a dry river bed With rose petals running over jagged stone, Or we will live, naked as bees, in a patchwork Forest stitched with water drawn from the sky’s groin.

    Sooner or later we will find ourselves In the next world. And it will be like this Or that. We will bring with us gold or shells And find them useful or not, in the next world, Or there will be no...