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God/Religion/Spiritualityexpand_moreWill you bless us, who are so in need of blessing? The world tires.
After days of torture in secret prisons, they were about to let him go.
These six-worders work in a strict three-act structure, like screenplays.
Rebecca beheld the sword which was suspended over her people.
It’s all that I have left of “the old country,” as my mother calls it.
When she passes you, her name is a bright blue phrase on your tongue.
My mother’s city and I were both named after an assassinated king.
The interrogator was both man and deity, prophet and god.
Even if he lost her he would never disparage her, never not love her.
It was up airly and down late with him, and the loom never standin’ still.
He cannot imagine the shape his life would take without her.
I tell her I’m a woman now, that my boobs just popped in.
The sense of power that flights of temper evoke will betray you.
Five dark shapes loped after the car. Dogs—as far as the eye could see.
I am eleven years old and too young to die, but I am dying nonetheless.
I am eleven years old and too young to die, but I am dying nonetheless.
He handed us sticks of dynamite, rolled in wax paper like taffy.
The face of love is a poem I am writing in an air-conditioned room.
He whispers words that sound as miraculous as the skinned fish of the clouds my father writhed like pentecostal snakes while he drove drunk
He always talked of making money with the air of a connoisseur.
“I mean it, Martín. I won’t marry a man with a bald lip, like a boy.”
Our visions of the world fade like the morning star, lost in the light of day.
It was a Saturday night in November when his diagnosis finally came.
I thought fleetingly he might give it to me, as he knew I wanted it.
Meghan Dunn
Years they sought her, whose crew left on the water a sad Welsh hymn.
“For the entire time I was there I couldn’t get that out of my head.”
He resumed his nightly practice of writing without being able to see.
Joanie’s face was something she’d borrowed from Miró, from Picasso.
I hold on to the shape of a star the way my aunts hold on to Jesus’s gown.
