Category Archives: Poetry

The Church of the Rowing Machine In the end, I arrive backward— not the way I learned it in the book, but pulled by the body’s wordless logic, lever and bone. I can see where I began, the shore of … Continue reading →

1. The Color Know this: You will end up hating it. Half- done, the blanket will wind through your sleep in marled blue, horse-blanket blue, a shower of chaff in the barnlight, red-flecked like the roan you dreamed of riding. … Continue reading →

1.         Confession   I’m trying to write but can’t stop thinking about Frank Stanford. How he shot himself in the heart three times with a small caliber pistol. Probably   the same kind that killed Penny the night of our … Continue reading →

Your lemon and lavender hug keeps me warm as we begin to prepare our Sunday feast.   You in your cracked brown shoes, scuffed with dreams and hopes; me, in Mary Janes squealing with newness.   Across the kitchen counter … Continue reading →

Peary Marx had no idea what Quakers were about when she was living in Knoxville, applying for teaching jobs when one came up at a Quaker college. She read the dogma, and there wasn’t one, but she found a meeting … Continue reading →

A Light That Clings   I wake in the half-world of our time, Willing the whittle of my thoughts Into a wind-shaped mask.   So much takes shape as I sift through these words.   Here’s a once fallow wish … Continue reading →

A crescent of fingers- massive, soft, masculine fingers- narrowed, pressing down, slowly & gently Engulfing the throat Parting the lips mechanically to gasp a squeaky, whispered gasp before the mouth filled with water Drowning the tongue Causing the dam to … Continue reading →

We Free The children of the 21st Century Living in penitentiaries   We write To you the authors Of our social landscape Our glam-scape   Ehem, “Please.. Stop polluting Our progressive minds With sleazy corruption.”   We understand That it’s … Continue reading →

And this is how I remember him: With a business card plus two pictures, Which I place side by side, next to my own; With slick black hair, mine curls into question marks. Thick, full eye brows; a rounded chin … Continue reading →

During Morning Meditation, Sister Beatrice Fantasizes about her own Death How Sister Veronica will open the sick-room blinds, and Beatrice will watch the moon in its full fury shaking off its blue-black burka of clouds. How the night air will … Continue reading →