%1

“Hip-hop is layered prophetically, because you’re tying the past to the present.”

Mr. Malcolm’s List and Bridgerton offer flimsy historical fantasy. Fire Island goes deeper.

1 Kings: 1:1–4

Now in the cold part of his life, he lies alone
with no one to warm his memory
of great deeds done for great blessings.

They called me from Shunem to sleep
next to the king, to touch but never
to share his anointed body.

I come with pomegranates and lilies
but not for dalliance, but only
to bring rest to his restlessness.

Readying his bones to go beyond
the temple veil, I help him meet Yahweh
in the deep sleep of my blanket.

A tumor like a portabella on its neck,
a Pomeranian has poked its head
into my timeline where its owner posts
please pray. And later at the Wednesday night
prayer meeting Widow Jones requests a word
of intercession for her Labradoodle
who has a blockage in his doggy gut
and is as bloated as a bullfrog’s chin.
And so at night I find myself in prayer
like this: Oh, Lord of endless mercy, Lord
of grace and wonder please bring healing down
to Cupcake and to Captain Fluffyface.

Philosopher and linguist Julia Kristeva asks but does not answer this question about the Russian novelist’s complex work.

Brooklyn-based and Southwest-informed, Eleanor Ray’s paintings are small works of attention—often around six by eight inches, oil on panel. Among her influences is philosopher Simone Weil, who understood attention as prayer.

In singleness of heart,
         God breathed his breath into us.

Like a mirror He molded us skin for skin,
         Pulchritudinous and wellpleasing.

We were his sweetest and loveliest work
         Above and below rolled together.

He flooded us with His blood. His blood—
         The sweet smell of frankincense.

As it tells the story of our time, the Century makes readers and writers of us all.

Luke 6:27–36

I am eight years old, sitting on the back porch
of my childhood home in late July
a paper bag of unshucked corn at my feet.

Pausing before my task, I watch the maple
oak and beech that wreathe the yard
shimmering in the gold of early evening light

short legs swinging beneath my chair in time
to the breeze that sings in nearby branches and warms
my own bare skin with the tenderness of midsummer air.

Beautiful objects in a sea of inequity and decadence