More on: poetry

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

It’s always the woman looking over her shoulder, some man chasing her past herself.

Perceiving less than I can fathom, I name more than I can know.

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

In your abandonment you are beloved; in exile you are saved.

Look as upward they gaze: those blessèd, dancing round and around in that circle of praise.

Fingers folded not in prayer, but interlaced. So as not to be torn asunder.

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

Let’s suppose that there is a spotlight waiting within the heart, and the heart is innocent because it is made of paper and can be cut.

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