Articles

This silence before
love pulls itself
apart, against
the current of its own
longing, is the most terrible
silence I know.

Of course complicating considerations can occur with the immaterial, too, as you might be into time and gravity but not augury or angels—or you might be into some angels, like the six-winged amber ones, but not the messenger of death.

When I tilt the cup
it drains like a face.

We’re the seeds our mothers have been planting. If
X marks the spot, let’s dig up the whole alphabet.

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 used to ask myself why humans go through sacrifices and insist on creating things that no one asked for or cares about. But not anymore. I realize that, in my case at least, it is simply an instinctive drive to do, and that’s my way of being.

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?