You fold this sweater the way a mothbuilds halls from the darkness it needsto go on living—safe inside this closet a family is gathering for dinner, cashmerewith oil, some garlic, a little salt, litand wings warmed by mealtime stories about flying at night into small firesgrazing on

I speak bones to you in the morning—hollow, fragile, ordained frameworks,their marrow winnowed by earth time. I hear emptiness in my pleas for health,forgiveness, prosperity. Echoes ossifywhere blood once pulsed and built. Like the half-attentive spouse who’s learnedto monotone

One February morning, pausebetween kitchen and dining roomto weep at Belle and Sebastiansinging about God. The cold is goodfor maple syrup, makes sap run,you aren’t sure how, or why this pretty popsong makes you snivel and drip like a cuttwig. You’ve seen God on Bisson street,God in a bi

After the murder of Julius Caesar in Shakespeare’s play, Brutus appeals to the charged, fearful crowd in a speech written in prose. He ends up getting his point across. People can see his side and why Caesar’s ambition was a threat to their freedom. But Mark Antony immediately follows hi

There stood by me this night the angel of God       Acts 27:23 I have no fear of storms since I heard His voice—my Accuser crying out of the sun.While I am chained in the shivering hold,the others cower and bleat to Baal.But no fury can last. Light finds a way—it

What milk      what honey you were promised gall       in ZionKiss the weeping wall’s cheek       love       sows salt in Zion It’s the recurring dream       of all      &nb