fall 2018 / Poetry 2018 / volume 49

Nothing but the Blood—Mary Ann Honaker

In church as a child, where the Pledged pews force spines into unpleasant uprightness, (by sermon’s end I’d be drooping carpetward,) he’d sing: round little man, lumpy as a dog’s bed, crooning coffeehouse acoustic, eyes closed or unfocused off to the left somewhere, gone, then he’d return, stooping a bit under applause, plump cheeks tucked … Continue reading