When the monarch can finally trust herselfto look, she sees nothing but bright motiondown there, a billiant heave, spinning shelfon spinning shelf, the tons of pouring ocean.And one island. She plummets down to calmon dune grass, her stomach filled with a bright mobof eggs, her wings a brilliant stab at finding them(please God) someplace to hatch, her brain a-throbwith greedy hope. But oh, the sky’s a rileof wind against her, yowling and enraged.If she could pray, she’d say—clinging, clinging—I’m tired, God. You watch the world awhile.She sleeps, while the sun, stuck in the ribcageof a bare tree, mutters, Spring, spring.
Amy Frykholm on clergy health, Christine Pohl on kindness, Steve Thorngate on the rhetoric of class.
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