Poetry. Essays. Reviews.
It is not The Word
that brings me to a perfect halt.
It is a hard, unbreakable consonant
that hurts my mouth like an olive pit.
Something clean, something
finished in my inner ear.
All lung and no breath. It is easy
to remember this kind of stillness.
I want it on my skin
like a tick. I want to lie down
like a dog for what it might give me.
In the compost across the yard,
bugs suck at my scraps.
Fire soot—coffee grind—
apple core—and I think:
Save nothing. And I am in love.
I am in love with this quiet church.
(From Mass Poetry, Poet In the Spotlight)