A few days ago, I dug my sourdough starter out from the back of the basement fridge, lifted off the tea towel, and found it was black and hard as stone. I said, Of course. This would be the year my starter died. My biologist friend had told me just last week that it’s quite … Continue reading The Year My Sourdough Starter (Nearly) Died
For Joel & NatalieA Blessing for Their House May you live like you’re young in this house that’s older than you,old as the trees,old like the bell steeple on Main Street,and the railroad that runs with the river west to the town where Dad was born. May you not erase the aging lines of this place, which … Continue reading Remember
The cicadas have come, like a thousand sirens in the trees. I was ten last time they emerged from the ground en masse, littering the grass and molting on every tree. I was still wearing my brothers’ basketball shorts and running around sticking the bug shells on peoples’ shirts after church. I remember how we … Continue reading Year of the Locust
I saw you all honey-haired in the golden light of the cattle stall, like motes of lit dust in the world--- little, but alive with the breath of God Himself and watching the cow heave and steam and give her milk between your fingers, as your own mama had given hers to you, and as … Continue reading Dust Motes
I've learned he is not like the moon, thumb-printed by shadow one night, then full and yellow as a harvest, then gone altogether on the thirteenth of November. He himself cannot be tempted or tilted or touched by the shadows cast by something bigger, because he himself is that Sun, and we are the thing … Continue reading Equinox
The kingdom of heaven is as near as the hand at the end of your arm. So turn the dough, stitch the wound, change the sheets, play the notes, stack the wood, sow the seeds and straighten the rocks along the wilderness road.
"Time to get up." His voice cut into my sleep like soft butter, a corner of my mattress dipping beneath him, a hand on my ankle, frost in the corners of the window, crumbs in the corners of my eyes, a pink sun kissing the bare treeline, he in a white dress shirt saying, "Little … Continue reading Talitha Cumi
A True Story from Home There it was, lying in a black case on the quilt like a closed casket. “Well, open it,” she said quietly. I unhitched the clasps and cracked it open to see a dark violin lying in green velvet. It was coated in dust and rosin, its strings were frayed, and … Continue reading The Butcher’s Violin
We are like the children when they fell out of the wardrobe back into the dust of this universe where the fly buzzes in the window grate and the air of the attic is stale but freshened by a swift wind from the door and the cold that still clings to our clothes and we … Continue reading From What Country?
The carnival tent on Fifth Street was as hot as an air balloon. The old men wore shiny shoes, and there was one woman in a dress with piano keys all over it. Ragtime wafted from pianos all over town—from the mainstage on Fifth; from somewhere up in the banisters of the Bothwell Hotel lobby; … Continue reading It Began in Sedalia
