More on: Poetry

And my flesh, my body, held

the kingdom of God, and if it’s a place that’s a place
for children, then most of what I know really doesn’t matter.

You carry our son in a locket
you hang around your neck

each morning, a way, I guess,
of carrying what isn’t and what is

In my mind,

my son cannot be nowhere, and yet I cannot imagine
where he is, except here, growing older inside me.”

You are two atomized
in one, our molecules
become wild air that whims
the world…

Katharine Blake on birth.

Laura Budofsky Wisniewski hears from her Bubbe’s ghost.

Hadara Bar-Nadav on praying at Jerusalem’s Western Wall.

Cal Freeman on the mythological cockatrice, which kills with a glance.

This is how the movie ends in movies­—
The fade, the retreat, image dissolving
into the bath that bore it.

Prayer is silence, / spirit-bones and soul-blood fluctuant as breath.