Wayne C. Booth’s autobiography is unusual for its genre. My first response, quite frankly, was disappointment. Unlike some authors who deem their life stories important enough to publish, Booth chose not to celebrate his tremendous…
Most of my life I’ve believed what these eyes see
these hands can touch,
that seeing and touching—being touched—
ends when they nail the coffin lid on.
Their shovels grate rock and gravel to fill
the grave she’d scoff empty of their grief—
“Hey, guys, I’m with God!” she’d proclaim.
“I’m not here, guys! I’m with Jeeeeezus, singing!”
The boy, sixteen, is taller than his mother, taller than
the creaky man with shining eyes and trembling hands.
You light between tall trees, never trip
on roots—and yet leave heavy footprints.
Bounding toward the surf, you pause for me:
together we will touch the sacred.
For them,
there was no between
they believed the tale
and trekked to testify
and walked and walked
The wind is simple
a thing with pacific bite.
Lifting foam tatters, cold.
The Word was made Flesh
and the Flesh made Words.
He fed the Five Thousand
on words shaped like loaves
Outside my window
one lone dead tree
is standing firm
in brave desiccation
Patty Lou looked out the door. She was waiting for her grandson, Robert, to come. She hadn’t seen him since her ninetieth birthday party three months earlier, when the whole family had come out to…