The left hand still flexes with the boy’s death, but on the right, a reprieve: the wrist wilts.

As Aristotle knew, for our lives to be complete, there must be something that we desire to do for its own sake—something that is not a means to an end, but an end in itself.

In her art, Huckaby is constantly pushing herself to discover those previously unheard voices.

All is still. God has come and gone.

It has been a bad decade for God. To begin with, we are losing women.

By inadequacies of word, of form, I have reached for you.

But should you be patient enough to wait near the edge of the forest where invisible and visible merge with magic and miracle.

My father’s latest stray, half-grown half-husky racing through puddles, won’t last long.