Poetry

Talking to Shadows

“…they will wield power in the smallest ways”                                                          —Colm Toibin Early evening, the first lamps light in dew on grass. Before I’ve…

Pissing Initials in the Snow

(Winter Solstice, Thursday, 22 December 1977) Thinking about nothing but the weather, I couldn’t sleep or write. The last or the worst was coming. I’d let pencil fall onto blank page and taken the four-wheeler to rumble over the clock-face of snow.

False Baptism

Rolling in from the lowlands every summer, a miasmatic mist intent on its pleasures. Wealthy enough to have the luxury of poor nerves, they preen and fawn over their kidneys, rheumatism, flour albus and scrofulitic afflictions, one group even carting up their own preacher,

Gospel River

Despite my animosity toward Sunday school and church: the huge helmets of grey hair capped by tight buns, flung back in hallelujahs; the spirit-filled oxblood wingtips loping to and from hard seats, and all the cloth— giant flowery dresses billowing up aisles, flapping dark suits and long ties lolling like…