The National Catholic Review


  • March 9, 2015
    For him the truth is a flavor,
    a pulse made of nutriment,
    a living mountain of breath.
    Even pinched between
    the fingers and released, he springs
    to perfect absence, beyond punishment,
  • March 2, 2015
    You must sit down and taste. —George Herbert
    That morning, Gilmore and Mary Frances
    sacrificed a lamb for us.
    Gilmore said,
    With a cool hand,
  • February 23, 2015
    Rooster, rooster,
    golden coxcomb
    wait not for the sun to rise.
    Crow for Peter
    through the darkness,
    pity him who thrice denied.
  • February 9, 2015
    I’d been thinking of the veins
    On the back of the hand:
    A photo I’d seen of a woman
    Clutching her baby in Darfur;
    An old man, eyes closed,
    Palming his forehead on the metro;
  • January 5-12, 2015
    I never saw the root of the real
    In arboreal flare,
    Nor witnessed this man walk on water,
    Nor that one float in air.
    I sat beneath the bodhi tree;
    I felt my body itch.
  • December 1, 2014

    Hour of approach, hour of silence.

    The brother sets down his axe in the woods.

    The sister sets down her glasses on the table

    and waits in the moment before prayer

    that throbs from the tolling of the bell.

    Shadows swallow shadows in the frigid air.

  • November 24, 2014

    There is no poem like a gravestone,

    that tersely worded, lapidary tercet,

    the name, the numbers, and the R.I.P.

    that are the skeleton key to all biography.

    Some lie embedded, trapdoors in the grass,

    while others rear their monumental

  • November 17, 2014
    A large cream colored mantis
    captured me today
    by a wisp of my hair
    near the nape of my neck.
    I flitted it like a leaf
    that fell from the aspen tree
  • November 3, 2014
    Wood sways and mutters; palsied shutters bang.
    The call has come. Stripped of starlight, night
    dwindles to gritty lavender and gray;
    mad jags of wind keep drowning out the surf.
    We dress, then slog through beach plums to the bay.
  • October 20, 2014
    Autumn is the time of year
    when God’s invisible hand
    paints the leaves
    in broad strokes
    of color,
    then plucks them off
    one by one.