Contents

Articles/Essays

If I Hate My Mother, Can I Love the Heavenly Mother?



Dialogue 31.4 (Winter 1998): 31–42
A series of questions began to occur to me: If I hate my mother, can I love the Heavenly Mother? If I hate my mother, can I love myself? If I hate God, can I love myself? If I hate myself, can I love my mother or theHeavenly Mother? I wanted to put these questions in the sharpest terms possible—love/hate. There was no room for ambivalence at this point. I had to let myself feel my strongest and darkest feelings, about mymother, about myself, and about God.



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Reflections on Mormon History: Zion and the Anti-Legal Tradition



Sir Henry Maine, our first great modern legal historian of the English language and law, in describing the paradigmatic shift from early feudal European society to a world of secular, territorial nation-states and market economy, observed that we had moved “from status to contract.” “Status” assumes an immutable condition not changeable by individual choice and action. “Contract” assumes that one can change existing conditions by choice and action. No statement describes with more insight the nineteenth-century Mormon concept of Zion. 



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Fiction

Rook



Last winter, after half a century of faithful church service and during a temple session, I abandoned my position at the temple veil, removed my robes, and demanded to be released. By nightfall, I had…



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A Sunday School Answer



Just another day in paradise in the Garden Park Ward. It was a spring morning that felt more like summer, and Sister Conway, our Sunday school instructor, was gracious enough to leave the door open,…



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Northing by Musket and Sextant



Steven whistled Neil Young songs to himself as the pickup sped north towards Saltillo. From the truck’s open bed, he commanded an obstructionless and enviable view of this Mexican wilderness’s enormous sterility. For some, it…



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Poetry

Luke 7:37



The alpha and omega sat at meat. 
The woman could not speak. She only knelt 
And wept. Translucent tears upon his feet 
Flowed like river waters to the Delta. 



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Night Fires



Family sentinels, we watch flames grab scrub oak
roughly on the shoulder of our dysphoric mountain,
shiver as three firs’ tired arms collapse in slow motion
silence. 



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Drama Queen



The week they turn off your phone, 
I wait in your car while you give quarters 
to a pay phone mounted on red brick 
at a convenience store. 



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My Father Comes to Me



My father comes to me 
his hand scrapes on the door 
that he opens to this bedroom where I am still, 
not sleeping but waiting for his hair oil scent to reach me.



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Fact of my life



My job was once threatened if I published a poem.
I lived in another place 
but in America and knew my rights. 
I let the poem wait. Oh, I read it aloud once



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