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Great Issues

By Peter Cooley Poetry

What can the sky say, waiting for the sun, which may or may not come, the leafless trees, unless I speak for them, their waiting deep as tap roots’ cold, suspended burrowing? I can always write another poem but I am tired of speaking of the world. If he wants a spring poem, let the…

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Ritual

By Jonathan Callard Essay

I’M DOING A CLEANSE,” Odin says. “Me and Mara. Just broth all day.” We’re standing at the corner of Grant and Polk by city hall in San Francisco, waiting for our ride to the Headlands where we will meet DT and do the vernal equinox ritual—“I know of a sacred tree,” he’d said, “at Rodeo…

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March: Saint John the Divine

By Elizabeth Spires Poetry

New York At noon precisely, just as the bells began to ring, the white peacock in the garden of Saint John the Divine spread its glorious tail, making a rippling many-splendored sound, like a sibilant wind rushing through many leaves. The tips of its feathers, shaped like tiny V’s, reminded me of doves descending, the…

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And If Jesus Asked You to Breakfast?

By Dana Littlepage Smith Poetry

Today I saw a man who looked away when he asked the clerk where he might find pepper- corn sauce in a packet. He held a muscled bit of stringy steak. Both man and meat had the gray look of shades swept from a cave. Sent to aisle three, the man wandered, head down, on…

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The Subject of Longing

By Bruce Cockburn Essay

So many things to see in this old world But all I can see is you. —“Together Alone,” 1970 The following is excerpted from Bruce Cockburn’s memoir, Rumours of Glory, forthcoming this November from HarperOne.   IN LATE 1966 I WAS INTRODUCED to two people, in very different circumstances, who would have a profound effect…

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Where Are You?

By Ryan Flanagan Essay

HOME, I SAY. I’m on the road, I say. I’m in class. No, it’s okay. What’s the matter? It was always the first question. Where I was would determine whether I could help. Where are you?—during those early months when I would pick up. He was locked out, he was stuck in the mud, etc.…

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Prodigal Body

By Judith Kunst Poetry

Once while I was walking, a man called out to me. He was slender, sitting on the grass with a racing bike beside him. He said, Would you believe a year ago I weighed three hundred pounds? I shook my head, and he said, Nobody else will believe me either. His body showed at once…

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