Military Polonaise

The girl with the long, dark hair bows her head in prayer as the ghostman’s call to arms wafts across our breaking

Passover bread, the belief that all promises are binding

Will keep us, will keep us

Bound to the hands of beauty


We Speak in Parables

Could be a lost child or the appearance of a tear in ordinary fabric. Could be the silence of the resurrected or the name of a wildflower on the back of a bus, here today and gone tomorrow no recorded words, no age, no cause of death, just a suddenly re-spooling life

As though you could call what we do here spooling,

as though any word at all could substitute for resurrection.

Broken Alabaster

The Calhoun County Courthouse is a mausoleal mid-century modernist confection, the juvenile detention courtroom then a windowless (Chinese) box on its second floor.

Perhaps I am biased. I remember envying the parents whose kid had gone on a wild joyride and the various parents of pot sellers and users.

I remember thinking the local Baptist pastor who was there for jury duty was a harbinger of God as I spilled out

The terrible story of why I was there.

Which had to be after the judge used the shade of our old oak tree for his big white truck. After his lawyer son stood across the street, bemused as Mary, on the roof, hurled her salty invectives at me.

After the juvenile probation chief told us they would not hold Charles forever and I thought to myself as I looked at him, (what do you have to do in the state of Texas to get yourself thrown in prison?!)

They say there is a library somewhere, an Ivy League kind of library, which has thin panels of white stone from floor to ceiling.

The light diffused through the thin white stone, perhaps to show-off or to shield the books.

I have searched for it for years, can’t find it

So much like a pearl, mother-of-pearl, an alabaster jar

Full of the most unmistakably broken


A Voice in Ramah

The LA Times writes a puff piece on abortion doctors who travel to states like mine to kill the unborn.

Our Eichmanns

Our Holocaust.

Matthew 2:18 NIV

[18] “A voice is heard in Ramah, weeping and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more.”

Mary Ellen

Wanted: Lester Eubanks

What would Jane say about the unspeakable crime scene? The girl already broken but still living? The final blow that ends the life.

Sometimes forensic science is not parsing out the rape, murder, and prosecution of the unspeakable crime. String of crimes.

Sometimes it is asking who decides what level of “good behavior” lets the murderer go on a shopping spree, walk alone in a mall–surrounded by the blissfully unsuspecting? Walk into the crowd.

And why all these years to wake us from slumber to

look for him

Among us?