the color of churned water. I have worn it for years— it no longer fits, tugs at the waist where I have grown under cover, spreading like roots, like grief, swelling in rows of deep rhizomes long after sowing. How often can a heart break? When might I be rid of this old coat?
praise trash cans so rusted and broken, they puzzle the garbage man,
praise the water-well dowser’s uncanny walk as he extends an iron rod or a beach branch: which ever will most surely remember the dry land’s hallowed grief.
I praise the woman who thought to embroider upon an altar cloth both cutwork angels and Containing within itself all sweetness.
I praise the Calusa Indians of Charlotte Harbor of whom it has been said: If their hands and noses were cut off, they took no account of it.
Who can say if the pleasure of acceptance is better than the power of denial?
O, reader, in the midst of this, our conversation here in our paper garden, I praise our silences.
Study war no more
Mar 18, 2011
Michael Izbicki grew up in a nondenominational church in California. A National Merit Scholarship finalist, he chose to go to the U.S. Naval Academy out of a sense of duty to his country during a time of war. At the naval academy he began to doubt whether the career to which he ha