Poetry

There’d be no songs if we weren’t sacrificed. We’re all just scraps of tulle—pale girls with doom across our foreheads like a set of gems, all willowed, pale, and

I keep forgetting the native in nativity And wait expectant instead for the fulfilled prophecies Of Norman Rockwell, the revelations of Frank Capra, For Bing Crosby to wake me to a December So

Darkened Not Completely Dark for John Taggart If we could hear the voice would it matter or know the naming of the names gathered tight then unfurled like snow between pines here ground

Where did you learn your gentleness? I would like to know Dearly, I would. Were there hands? I hope there were kind hands. Of dirt and branches, perhaps And cool fog. You wouldn’

In a real, dark night of the soul, it is always three o’clock in the morning. – F. Scott Fitzgerald Billow bright, our faces flung open— Cracked from the top down for a