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Tongue Is the Pen

By Brett Foster Poetry

Isaiah 43 I am making all things new! Or am trying to, being so surprised to be one of those guys who may be dying early. This is yet one more earthen declaration, uttered through a better prophet’s more durable mouth, with heart astir. It’s not oath-taking that I’m concerned with here, for what that’s…

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Mixed Company

By Brett Foster Poetry

Mark 2 Meaning, not the fey name of a coffee shop cheekily named, but me and the sinners (not “mixed” as in unlike things commingling, but rather the “meh” of our behaviors or consistent confusions, contradictions like breaking news ongoing, over and over with little new to report…) as I was saying, me and sinners…

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Devotion: For Our Bodies

By Brett Foster Poetry

Yes love, I must confess I’m at it again, struggling in vain with my Greek declensions. I know it’s common, but I want to show you what I found in Praxeis Apostolon, chapter one, verse twenty-four: this exquisite epithet, kardiognosta. Forget briefly its context, that the eleven, genuflecting, implore the Lord to give wisdom. Between…

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Petition: California Avenue

By Brett Foster Poetry

Taped to a red “College/Career Info” catalog box near this block’s crowded sidewalk bistro, one business envelope. Please pray for my husband Cliff for his health. He is very, very ill. God loves you, Dedra. Maybe hung just that day, ten minutes since. Looks more like a week, open but not torn, faded script &…

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Late Easter, Spring Come Lately

By Brett Foster Poetry

She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away. In one of John Donne’s under-read hymns, on his sickness, he claims one place held Paradise and Calvary—Adam’s disgrace, too: over whose tree we choose…

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