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
Is faith set and certainor is it alive and changing (or is that me)?On one hand, I hold onto adogma that has been passed on,outlawed,
for Sheryl Grossman The first time doctors tried to call it off,I was still being knitted, and a dropped stitch on one of my geneslooked
for JH & TI.Took about a minuteto sift through what terminationwould mean: one less childin the broken, breaking system. A few more minutesto feel out
