A Book I Can Put DownI’m halfway throughand I’ve gotten usedto the way it wantsto be read. This writerwants to spoon it up,wants to watch meswallow it. This writermakes a point of gooddeeds, clean living,god and country,when what I wantis sin and shame,the rusty metal edgeof cruelty, varietiesof pain, his motherstill crying years later,just like mine. I wanta writer who’s given upon the moral of the story,one who’ll hand mea knife and sit backto see what I do wi

AmendsRegret lingers, niggles. Yellow lilieson the table, gone brown in the vase.The garden we talk about, endlessly, but never begin, deterred by tough sod.On the edge of the walk, the wheelbarrowfull of stones waits like an undeliveredapology. Within, the floor needs scrubbingand only hands and knees will do the job.I know that forgiveness is a simple meal—a salad, a boiled potato, a glass of tea.Easy to prepare, to offer. That the silenceafterward will satisfy, perhaps even nourish.