Out of the mouths of Holy Innocents
the wailings of our weakness,
our Herod knees bent now
the better to swallow
the words we’ve wallowed in,
the tug-and-pull of the womb
across the clinic’s lintel.
In Rama there is weeping,
in Charleston, in Bismark,
in Portland, in Trenton,
in Pittsbugh, in New Orleans,
in Santa Rosa, in the thin sac that holds us
from heaven. There is weeping
for the waste we so covetously cradle
as our rights, that we so vehemently sing
as the holy holly bough is breaking.
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
The Fourth Watch
The following is an excerpt from the first edition of The Fourth Watch, a newsletter about Catholicism from First…
St. Cuthbert and the Cave That Couldn’t Be Filmed
August 2025 in northern England was chilly and windy. I had gone over to this land along…
Ukraine’s Religious Leaders and Munich 2.0
Prior to the “Revolution of Dignity” that began on the Maidan, Kyiv’s Independence Square, in late 2013…
