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Kiley Reid’s novel about race, class, and good intentions that miss the point

absurdity and
death and
insanity, and

personal immortality

My Son so
performed His

miraculous acts

with no
safety net, neither
any thing up His
sleeve, nor even a
fire curtain

any where in sight

preferring to walk
a tight taut rope,

a Crimson Clown
as acrobat, not
an acrophobe
He trod

the thin wire of
Faith, like

walking on water

I wake up to moon and stars still gleaming
in the predawn sky, and think, who cares
about someone else’s inscrutable dream?
I’ll insist, like everybody,
Mine is different. Listen.

A great white bird—a swan, perhaps, 
or egret—hard to tell, so blinding
bright its splendid plumage—stood
in our kitchen citing Scripture.
To think of its words now takes me

The song I was created to live within and become

—Mark 3:5 ESV

Fifty-nine translations in English.
Four recuse Jesus from anger,
selecting indignation, furious,
ka’as, wrath instead. Anything

to keep Jesus from anger.
These gospels pierce us until,
like making eye contact
with panhandlers, we turn away.

And yet fifty-five times, the Son of God,
the Man of Sorrows, the One acquainted
with grief, looks into everyone present.

How they engaged culture in troubling times

Adam and Matt welcome Sarah Kinney Gaventa to talk about work, sexism, Dolly Parton, and the hit 1980 movie 9 to 5. 

Rain, early March rain
Heaving against the windows;
March storms in again,

All bluster, as though
Intending to remind me
Of something I know:

As spring will appear
Behind this sorry weather,
So grief, this past year,

Has stayed coy, low-key
But now seems poised to flower,
Be what it should be—

Or at least regret
For things we couldn’t settle,
Forgive, or forget.