Broken, and again broken, / sick and scraped, my Tree.
There is an ineffable green / and there is no justice / in minimal effort and lack of vocabulary.
show me how to / sound in the world, / how to / speak with a voice patient / as weeds, expectant as wheat
In the boulevard before crossing to the front steps, I’m stopped in my tracks and breath. On the porch—the wicker loveseat once your aunt’s, blue shirt, beard newly trimmed—I see you clear as day.
Malice became the word we wanted / to drink from, the long-stemmed glass / you broke by squeezing your fist, / the tart wine I poured on the wound.
Suppose you were a pilgrim / chilled beneath your heavy tunic, / your village receding / as your steps carry you farther / than you have ever traveled.
Laura Reece Hogan’s award-winning collection of poems, Litany of Flights (Paraclete Press), draws us into a watercolor of words where the material world she vividly presents bleeds into another world, one invisible yet powerful in its beauty and Providence.
I live now in a land of ritual courtesies. / There is gentleness, mi compañera. Is it that way in / / The ghost world?
Did you sense / a chill before you ascended that ladder / your pupils growing in the barn light / your child hand gripping rail
