her voice shakes, courage escaping out of each word. She sits, cross-legged, and I wait while she asks. Is it okay? to tell you this? I nod, and wait some more, and remember just how black my own silence was at first. I don’t know how to say this, she says, but I know: it… More still
Dear Georgie, I wrote this for your 16th birthday, and then was too nervous to show it to you. Poetry is my experiment, not my gift, but I re-discovered this poem tonight when I was about to throw an old notebook away and this fell out of it. So happy (late) birthday. <3 Your favorite… More For Grace
She asked which you were, the birth or the death, and I thought it strange, because you were both and neither: It was your raw palms that took a Sunday morning, a few nails and the splinters of your sacrifice and united Bethlehem and Golgotha.
He birthed the world, His lungs scattering dust the way trees scatter light in the forest. The stars burned in His palms, the galaxies trailed behind His fingertips, but He chose the smallest image bearer to carry His grace: dust, rib, breath. it was good.
There are a dozen red roses in the trash behind your house, and the phone in your hand buzzes, but you do not answer. It’s all wrong, when love works backward and undoes you, and even the air in your lungs begins to feel toxic. Dear one, the scars that roses left may swallow you… More Even Then
You seem surprised, the way winter is always surprised by spring: But when the sky splinters above you, with rain and rain and rain, you have not forgotten how to dance. So how is it that you have never thought to ask what it meant when the rock beneath your dancing feet was as solid… More Birth