St. Lunatic by Gayle Bell
“St. Lunatic” by Gayle Bell That’s what my kids call me able to try to fix the whole world in a single bleeding heart I bare it all baby an offered hat, clothes still with good wear a burger, coffee, a shoulder, an ear Ms. June has a smile like a brown berry sunshine a greeting like a country hug Mr. Willie can sing spirituals that would make a statue get happy Alabama tats on a shoulder A yes mam, Gods...
Host by Roz Spafford
“Host” by Roz Spafford From The Gospel According to Mary Hungry for justice, he won’t eat, not one grape nor flake of fish. His flesh is grass, dry as a whisper. His wish: to divide his body like those fish. Gambling on scraps, returned in baskets, overflowing. He would be bread dry and flat broken for us. He would be memory. Behind him the demons hiss. Subsistence is what they give us: our sardines...
Dogma by Cynthia Reeser
“Dogma” by Cynthia Reeser Everywhere you look, churches. A proliferation of churches. It’s the Bible Belt and to be expected, but this, really. My son counting churches—it’s a game, wherever we drive. Churches in the country, churches in the city, churches in the suburbs. Churches across from other churches, dogmatic competition. Every other building a church. A church for every person, one for every other...
Where God Lives by Jeanne Bryner
“Where God Lives” by Jeanne Bryner It is hard to believe in God, even now. He was always somewhere else. Maybe fishing. Sometimes I get mad. Like when my sister was eight and I was six. Daddy went drinking, left us all alone to tend our baby brothers. We were potty-training the chubby one, Ben. I knelt to pull him off his potty seat and his weenie got caught in a crack of blue plastic. Blood spurted as if I’d...
Bring Me the God of Mrs. Garcia by Susan Kelly-DeWitt
“Bring Me the God of Mrs. Garcia” by Susan Kelly-DeWitt The thread was flame-colored, like vermilion flycatchers she once sketched in the countryside near Buenos Aires. Portugal snipped a length and smoothed it with her plump fingers. The sharp she would use, one of her mother’s good golds, weighed less than a hummingbird’s feather. She slipped the floss through the needle’s eye and thought of the rich man...
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Our Buoyant Force May 30, 2025
