More on: Margaret Mackinnon

. . . faith in the faith that the way the story ends
is not the story—

May some mercy find them both.

I have love And a child, A banjo And shadows. It was the light, always the light. First, that absent early hour when he woke to find the world made strange, knocked awry, as if creation had suddenly undone itself, the landscape dishonored by this loss. The dawn moved haltingly toward day. He would have…