Marjorie Maddox

Face blank as absolution,              from this back rowshe stares straight ahead              to the small raised stageof touring musicians, lost              in the rebel notes they soldtheir . . . . Continue Reading »

This second circle—coming back againto the coming back—the sweeping dial of days; where all time’s whats and whys and whensclick clockwise on your face, or mine. Beginagain the memory of counting while this second circle, coming back again,continues clicking on its route to chimedelights and . . . . Continue Reading »

“Virtue! a fig! ’tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus.Our bodies are our gardens, to the which our willsare gardeners.” —Othello, William Shakespeare “Virtue! A fig!” We grasp the hoe and dig.The dirt we turn is taken from ourselves.We chop the trunk and bough; then clip the . . . . Continue Reading »

“The ordinary acts we practice every dayat home are of more importance to the soulthan their simplicity might suggest.” —St. Thomas More Shake out doubt.Sliced mustard seedsgather in creases of what you believed,once. Find them. Remember the feelof soft, the soap-smell of calm,and smooth the . . . . Continue Reading »

Let us nail ourselves to him, resistingthe temptation to stand apart or to joinothers in mocking him.” —Pope Benedict XVILet us nail ourselves to him and resisttemptation’s lure to mock the onewho loves us most. Surely thisis the serpent’s curse: angel outdoneby temptation’s lure. We mock: . . . . Continue Reading »

           Here God gums up in the mouth, won’t spit itself out with every easy expletive, leaving the discussion free for disagreement.            Harder to digest than politically . . . . Continue Reading »

After the years of tear-drying and tissue-passing, the closed-door conferences above reproach and beyond remembrance, he packs files of sermons, reread books, thank-you notes and complaints, receipts from now-broken air conditioners that can’t cool this fear that swirls up the unexpected dust . . . . Continue Reading »

Waiting behind burned-out jack-o’-lanterns for day to come, the saints clap their stigmata hands. They are the sun’s halo, shimmering the November air with celestial simplicity; the sky, their dried blood. By the time we wake on All Hallows,weary from our own werewolves and witches, the narrow . . . . Continue Reading »

We stack the dead names of the faithful high in the incensed air, light prayers beneath them till the altar burns with words. The nave knows their smoke, remembers our memories of them. The chancel recants our absence from their lives until we live again in the space at the rail beside them, these . . . . Continue Reading »

At church, the man touches his lover’s hand: two crisscrossed in the cross, signing symbols in unison. They are unhappy with Worship, the servings up of Christ: too scattered to soothe their weekly palates. At the potluck afterwards, they steam, recite the Last Supper like apostles replaying the . . . . Continue Reading »