Articles

Until he leapt four stories toward death
my father didn’t believe in God, he said,
but himself, yet the tech in the medevac

swore, as the helicopter lifted, he asked
whether Jesus loved him.

It may come
that I don’t

make it out.

If anything is worth living for, worth singing an imperfect offering to, it is the low and the small.

There’s something like prayer I’ve always bit on my tongue but then I can immediately taste the blood afterwards. You’re old enough to know now my father says to me.

Simcoe instinctively recognized tar paper’s potential as the medium he was seeking. It had a texture receptive to crayon and brush; its lusterless, inky finish conveyed an aura of mystery; and you could simply tack it onto a gallery wall for display.

“We’re wagering on the importance of spaces that support artists holistically, as creators of value that isn’t simply financial.”

My father wants a new suit, deep blue to black
for the viewing loose fitting, with or without
a cuff

I had wagered more than I could afford to lose on the probability that God was a friend to the orphan and a protector of the vulnerable.

Most objects do object to being moved:
crates of paperbacks cracking, a creaking hutch
of china the clumsy among us won’t touch.