The National Catholic Review


  • May 18, 2015
    I’ll return for one night, carrying you
    papaya. Thickly cut. Resembling
    driftwood scattered below the parking lot
    I can see from Sacramento’s river bridges.
    I’m taking I-5 south to 99....
  • May 11, 2015
    “I am rebegot/ Of absence, darkness, death; things which are not.” — John Donne, “A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy’s Day”
    Again and again, from nothingness I’m born.
    Each death I witness makes me more my own.
    I imagine each excess line of mine erased,
  • May 4, 2015
    The lady of the cleaners
    doesn’t care.
    She really doesn’t care.
    She writes your fate
    in a steamed inferno
    and presses with despair.
    Three pins in mouth—
  • April 27, 2015
    Their shadows flickered and stretched to the west.
    The future fixed its lidless eye
    On concrete switchgrass, furrows of asphalt.
    Telescopes, searchlights aimed on high
    Shot the flare of the mind at darkness.
    We stood on the moon but...
  • March 30, 2015
    O Holy Spirit
    we did not know
    how strong you are
    in our dull age
    until we saw your colors
    apple reds, transparent greens,
    blue of truth,
  • March 16, 2015
    “What men truly want is peace,”
    Says the last one true prophet.
    Peace feels so like submission
    Good prophets can fool most men.
    For the rest, there’s the hammer,
    Followed by a gentle tongue
  • 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;