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CREATIVE NON-FICTION, Creative Writing, Spill My Soul

I the Lord do not change. -Malachi 3:6   The sky has hardened into an iron atmosphere, layering itself with blankets of clouds thick and full of snow, which will no doubt spill to earth within days. As I inhale…

Tracing My Obsession

CREATIVE NON-FICTION, Creative Writing, Posts

It’s been said that if you’re a writer, you write about your obsessions, whether you intend to or not. For me, that means poems and short stories (the bulk of what I write) set in open spaces on the northern…

The Change

Creative Writing, POETRY

  How glorious it feels to experience Your artistry; at every glimpse, inspired by the colors of your palette. Trees and communities awash in vibrancy; it’s amazing how You draw beauty from a dying thing. Each leaf takes on a…

Above the Waves

CREATIVE NON-FICTION, Creative Writing, Spill My Soul

Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.   -Philippians…

This Is What We Do

Creative Writing, POETRY

  Peace passes without understanding Right over heads of ant-like men and women, Artists and accountants, Engineers and exercise junkies, Construction workers and stay-at-homers. They go on worrying and working, Always catching up, forever behind. Their children, too, scramble From…

Prayer Of The Man Without Sight

Creative Writing, POETRY

  So it is now to be, Lord, that penance brings with it her own harder penance; riddled throughout with pain, sweetly nuanced with character like wine, red and melancholy and ripe? Forsworn am I from joy so privily gotten…

Becoming Isaiah

Creative Writing, POETRY

  Burnt lips — altar food too hot for my mud-stained soul. I’m headfirst, fallen into adoration by the presence of a thousand stars. Not enough feathers to cover my eyes. I can barely lift my head enough to bite…

An Untangling

Creative Writing, POETRY

  Dear God: If I could find you in human form, my tears would water you. If I could hold perfume in an alabaster jar and pour my fears out on your feet, I would honor you with kisses. I…


Hand-Selected For You

What If My Nerves Were Singing

There are stages in the spiritual life. In the beginning, in the stage of Conversion, there are piercing insights and frequent joy. Everything makes sense. We have changed our lives and consolation rains down on us. But then, sooner or...

Unio Mystica

During Catholic mass in St. Xavier’s Church, the priest places a wafer, a flake of skin, on my tongue as coolly as smoke rings ejected from a murderer’s mouth. Their sacrament, Reshma tells me singing, drags them by the hair, or binds each limb to the bedposts, laid bare like the silvery bottom of a mango leaf drowned underwater, or with malarial kisses, marries them. This sacrament is the knobs in their fingers, knotted with the places buds have been snapped off at the knuckles, now the bloom’s about to break through like from rosehips. As Reshma sings, “Jai. Jai. Jai,” she confesses in her plastic chair beneath the chikoo tree, her sacramental victory rises like a heart-lotus flower, pale and mysterious, after sinking deep into the murky waters of the mind’s own hell, then, flowering as if to burst from the stem of the throat, and opening into a white song only the night lilies of Mumbai can hear.