it will be holy / it will be most holy / everything / set up / placed / and set out / placed / and set up / placed / and burned
Three Poems
Creativity
My mother believes in God because of creativity. Not mine, not hers, not anyone in specific, but because it births itself through us; through our keyboards, our pens, our paintbrushes, our chisels, our pianos, forcing itself through channels we cannot control.
Crooked-Finger Woman
I wait for you under a weeping birch. / I will climb through forked branches / to seek the message you’ve come for.
When All Else Fails
not all scars / tell a story / or were deserved
Cumulus
A solitary cumulous / in a sea of space
No Botticelli, This—
No ginger virgin, hands modest to sex and breast, / flesh fallow, fecund as sky gone to seed in the sea . . .
To the Mormon Newlyweds Who Thought the Bellybutton Was Somehow Involved
I think of you two on your wedding day, / hands trembling as he removed your / pearled tiara and she loosened your / grandfather’s cufflinks.
Psaltery & Lyre 