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Life in All Things

By Robert MacDonald Poetry

—————————–“The real aim is not to see God —————————–in all things, it is that God, through us, —————————–should see the things that we see.” —————————–– Simone Weil Daybreak the bones of dream break the light Breakfast spoons lifted from the drain board to spend time in the yogurt bowl beside the plate of steaming scones…

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The Tempter

By Peter Norman Poetry

Matthew 4:1–11 Leather-winged I wheel over dunes. Dimpled crests resemble rippled seabed sand. Peering through the centuries I witness future blots: rusted armour, helicopter husk, sphincters in the dirt where mines blew out. Striations made by scream. But now a figure clarifies from distant shimmer-heat. What myth do you believe? In one, I was the…

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Kindled

By Sarah Wallace Poetry

Attention truncated yields torture. The saints’ patience flames on the furthest continents of faith. “That burn doesn’t seem to want to heal,” writes Simone Weil in her journal; not far below she notes the price for best Italian ices. In the Sistine Chapel, the last hellmouth glows like a room whose absent owner left lights on as illusion to prevent all realities that…

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Testimony One — 1968 — On Account of a Ripe Tomato In the Garden of Earthly Delights

By Lesley-Anne Evans Poetry

“‘Container of the Uncontainable’…doesn’t fully convey the sense of the Greek. I think a better translation would be ‘fits the unfittable,’ but that just sounds awkward…” — NICOLE ROCCAS, TIME ETERNAL —————————-1. There is no angel. —————————-2. There are cicadas clicking like a ——————————-vinyl record stuck on one relentless ——————————-everlasting note. There is occasional ——————————-lowing…

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Kin Prayer

By Shazia Hafiz Ramji Poetry

I. I come into this world on a pair of earrings—a coil of light on her spined ear—hoopoe birthmark at her nape sifting the heft of the dhow—through her hair she wears the heaviest bells——ears cupped in shell weather she knows the price of a ticket across the black waters is not possible——— bismillah is…

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basketball prayer, for Issachar

By Benjamin Hertwig Poetry

god is the warm smell of a vcr —————————–in a room that feels safe. violence sits like a dog at the door, —————————–but god is the door we closed when playing playstation, —————————–the beanbag chair we shared. the door is now open, —————————–and there a man stands, looking like jesus torn from his cross, —————————–staining…

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