We come to the point
where there is no poem.
We have come to it
a hundred times.
There are a hundred faces
but there is only your face,
the face I trace with my fingertip
a hundred times,
so that even in the dark
I can raise my hand and trace it
In the air above my face.
There’s no poem–
there is your finger
making your name in little
circles on my chest,
every circle a perfect O,
and every ring a future.
Informed Unbelief in anything has to be better than uninformed belief, but uninformed unbelief is no better than blind faith.
My grandmother was a sturdy soul. Her life consisted of taking care of her demanding German husband, incessant cleaning of a spotless house, speculating about the conjunction of rain clouds and her arthritis, and calling the church rectory for updates on mass times and confession. She came from a large, loud, tuneful Irish family, pronounced film as “filum” and laughed at jokes three minutes ahead of the punchline. “Hey Nonnie,” I would say, “Did you hear the one about the priest and the chiropractor?” The laughing would start ere the words were out of my mouth.
She was patient, gullible, superstitious, carping and kind. She didn’t like dogs or most of her neighbors, squinted at dust, sermons about Mary, and occasionally at me. If she had secrets or dark corners to her existence they were buried with her and will remain forever unknown.
She now exists in photographs–often with the…
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The New Oxonian 