Throwing stones at the sky Hoping they’ll skip across clouds Turning air into meaning. We’re definitely turning something into something, Water into wine, is it? Miracles! That’s what I need, Not careless deeds, Not random acts of kindness. Holy prayers Made by holey hands… But won’t the words slip right through? Can we not just…


Slender beams of light stream Through panes of glass And dust. I kneel, Always in prayer, always in pain, Awaiting accusation, Defying salvation

The Puppet Maker

I am a woman Made of wood; Paint and carve, And chip away. Pretend you made me But, I was always alive. Make me a mouth So I can give you back Your little words, Oh, Creator, Consumed by madness. My god without eyes Look and see: It fits, It fits.