DiaBLOGue

Southern Idaho Summer

I was six. 
I wheeled Grandpa’s milk cans out 
to wait like patient soldiers for the cheese truck. 
I strutted in a new red and blue 
corduroy cowboy suit. 

Returning

Mouth over the reed, 
you empty your feelings 
into the hollow heart. 
These are the pieces left: 

Diaries

I keep diaries in my head 
At night I write on sealed pages 
In dream codes a         sort 
Of dot-dot-dash Morse himself 

A Rock, A Fir, and A Magpie

Fern left Relief Society early. She had never done that before, but she had a headache. Or something. It wasn’t really a headache, but it was in her head. Or her neck, or back. It wasn’t…

A Reading Group

I had just hung up my topcoat and scarf and tossed my jacket on the f unmade bed when the telephone rang. There was a time when I liked to hear that sound; it meant…

David and Bathsheba

When I slid the damask 
from its plastic sleeve 
to spread it on the table, 
the stain throbbed against crisp white. 

Poetic Borrowing in Early Mormonism

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, it seems, has had little ^ use for poetry that cannot be sung. The chief place of verse has always been the hymnal, and not without reason:…