But not for bodies, not for souls set free,but rather expectations: who they werein childhood’s pure perspectives, once so sure,now clearing in the eyes of
Honorable Mention in the 2023 Porter Fleming Literary Competition hosted by the Morris Museum of Art. Originally published in the Aiken Standard.
Empty hands are all I have. The nothing’s all You need:in the valley of my palm, You place a mustard seed. My skin’s no soil
I often try to soften Jesus—he who claims he came to set the world ablaze, set like flint, burning, burning,bearing a sword, a whip of
I read the A-frame on the curb as I passedand pictured the rainbow array of mistakesfrom every indistinguishable kind of whiteto the shade too much
Rubied roses and splattered wine, spilling sunsets, bruises, burns, fired iron and ancient rust, edge of danger, passionate love— Gentle yeses and offered palms, tight
This is for the two-year-olds who cannot be understood because they speak half English and half God. Shake the dust.-Anis Mojgani, “Shake the Dust” Didn’t
