Saturday, July 30, 2011


These hooks hang onto hunks
of a color I can’t name,
Not auburn
or burnt sienna.
More like the
ubiquity of rust
And the flakes of its oxidizing
The tumble of bead
over stone
like the kaleidoscope
my mother gave me
when I was twenty
and its assurance of flow.
The horsehair smells like a
hay on a wooden floor,
and the funk of farriers’ tools
warming in the sun
after their congress with horseshoe,
and nail.
It sticks and streams
from hooked hunks
of barbed wire,
a testimony to presence,
the imagined body of absence,
and how they play together,
like the glow of new metal
before rust reaches it
and gives it blood.

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Georgia, United States
I live at the edge of the forest in a little town in the north Georgia mountains. I teach sixth grade Language Arts and am writing a memoir of sorts about family, spirituality, and narrative. I am also exploring a possible writing project having to do with contemporary lay contemplative experience and how it might be informed by the Desert Fathers and Mothers of early Christianity. I am a relatively recent convert to Roman Catholicism and an admirer of Pope Francis, Leonardo Boff, Joan Chittister, and Richard Rohr. I'm a Lay Associate of Our Lady of the Holy Spirit Monastery in Conyers, Georgia. I am interested in indigenous cultures, narratives, and spirituality, especially how these can inform my spirituality as a lay contemplative. I write, read, take pictures, play around with creating ephemera from paper and cloth and other organic things. I cook, hike, watch wildlife, and collect random bits of interesting oddness, both tangible and abstract. I am a seer of smallness and a caretaker of ridiculous minutiae. If you want, e-mail me at or