In her fiftieth year and all these other
smug and satisfied people’s children
gaping faces from the pews like ripe pears
and what can she say—a professional woman,
I feel grace descend like whiskey-scented
oil poured over me in the upper room on
my way to heaven. I dance in the heat of
a fire, like ghosts following Sitting Bull
Three times I take his words into my mouth
and make them thunder from my tongue.
His final speech will not remain unsung in me.
The trees wear
copper-lit skin tonight.
Spread out and still in the cold,
they look like slender Kenyans
holding up thousands of hands,
It snowed yesterday for a moment
but it was an idea
that didn’t catch on —
That morning you came to me
I saw the lamp arising in your beard,
a flash of solder and fire
wisping in your robes and hair
Lucille Wentworth sat in her working on her cross-stitch, watching Judy and Ray hold hands, sitting across from her on the couch. It was late, past one; they’d talked for hours, the conversation flowing around…
Latham Runyon wondered what time he ought to close his window. It was going to be a tongue-hanger today. But for now, the morning was still dewy and bearable. He pulled his half-glasses up to…
I AM NATASHA MCDONALD. THIS IS MY MOM AND DAD. I HAVE CEREBRAL PALSY. I THINK AND FEEL LIKE YOU DO BUT THE PART OF MY BRAIN THAT CONTROLS MY PHYSICAL SELF WAS DAMAGED WHEN…
Few articles published in Dialogue disturbed my intellectual comfort as Dr. Bradley Walker’s three-part series on the deplorable condition of Latin American Saints.[1] For some three decades, I lived off and on in Third World…