Category Archives: poetry

Mother’s Day

Posted on May 11, 2014 by Rosalind C Hughes

From the side of the multipurpose metro parkway trail, a single angelus transports me: You sing some nursery nonsense as we pack away the picnic stuff; it’s time to go home. Within the forest’s shade, there is nothing to be … Continue reading →

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Hacked into the neural network, the viral voice of the Accuser, fiat crashing in: Deny. Gliding behind the altar: Make room, sinner. The silver pieces gleam complacently. The desert dwellers hunger and my lips are dry. I watch my own … Continue reading →

Posted on May 9, 2014 by Rosalind C Hughes | Leave a comment

Wrinkle

Posted on May 2, 2014 by Rosalind C Hughes

Stitching time back together, the threads held slack; more room for tangling and dropped stitches, repetitions overworked and undone; old patterns emerge slanted, fraying, well beloved.

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Hard of hearing

Posted on April 24, 2014 by Rosalind C Hughes

Tender words shouted at my father; love rendered hard in his hearing.

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PTSD Jesus

Posted on April 22, 2014 by Rosalind C Hughes

When he was raised, he bore the marks, which must mean he remembered. Then does each adulterous kiss make him wince at its betrayal; each flash of the needle, of the knife make him flinch? Does he recoil at the … Continue reading →

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How to read a palm

Posted on April 11, 2014 by Rosalind C Hughes

Examine the heart; is it sappy, or made of stone? Trace the veins that indicate the wisdom of Solomon, or the mercurial folly of man. Follow the lines of travel: do they cross? If the life line looks long enough, break off the branch, … Continue reading →

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Dry Bones

Posted on April 5, 2014 by Rosalind C Hughes

I cried so long my very bones were dry; I couldn’t raise my head, lay loose-limbed, sunken. I heard a voice cry, “Prophesy!” My body jumped, of its own volition, to attention, knocking the stale breath out of me with … Continue reading →

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Blind

Posted on March 27, 2014 by Rosalind C Hughes

He sent me away. I don’t know why, having shared with me his spit and mud, he wouldn’t lead me to the pool, cup the water in my hand; he didn’t see the wonder through. If he had, the first … Continue reading →

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The well woman

Posted on March 22, 2014 by Rosalind C Hughes

“Give me that water,” she said; “no more drudgery of trudging to the well.” He fixed her with a look so keen she felt the bucket of her belly tip over; all told she was empty, and bottomless. The water … Continue reading →

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Born again

Posted on March 11, 2014 by Rosalind C Hughes

There are no shadows at high noon, or at night, but Nicodemus’ brother is crepuscular, sneaking out in the gray dusk and slinking home at dawn. You will know him by his eyes, blood-red, searching, wildly, for the womb, the last … Continue reading →

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