More on: poetry

Why pray for the dead if not for this,
for God’s speed on their journey, home,
beneath the burden of the proof they bear.

The shooter was a loner—they always are—
but to the bullied and confused, he just
might be the one who understands . . .

When photos of a million horrors
made the papers, a million eyes stopped
and stared, the way a glass of water stares,
and the railcar around it coming to rest.

I am underground,
on a path through small rooms
lit only by delicate chandeliers
of finger and knuckle bones
wired together, shedding a soft
light on the group of worshippers
who tiptoe through.

When will I have time to do
that which I desire,
that which I can’t make
myself do, ever?

The boy inside me is watching, frowning.
But something else is watching him,

saying, sweetheart, saying, it is so hard.

Come up behind me. See through my eyes.

Suffering, I once believed, was a human privilege,
but in that moment I watched as God
died, as God witnessed.

All I can do now is recount their appearance: simple swamp white oak leaves.

In the virgin’s garden a ladder is kept for angels to step up & down.