Support First Things by turning your adblocker off or by making a  donation. Thanks!

The Christ-Frost

From the June/July 2011 Print Edition

After I had burned alive a spell, spellbound by the burning that bound me, I saw an Ice Cross rising down to me through sea- blue sky. This Ice Cross was the eye’s cross, submerged for years in the eye’s aqueous humor, an iceberg crux cracked off the Pole Star and splashed deep”all . . . . Continue Reading »

Prayer

From the February 2010 Print Edition

Lord, late though I am, slide the lathe And shape, shave me. Shear me wraith- Slim, slave-thin; flay the skin in moth- Wings off my soul’s loathed sheath. Wrath- Ripe as I am, pluck me, pulp me. Filth That I am, bathe me. Faith, Be water; Father, help me drown. I cannot breathe until you . . . . Continue Reading »

Heavy Water

From the November 2009 Print Edition

Heavy water, holy water, we are weighed on By your waterweight, you proton- Poisoned fission vintage we dare not sip. A drip weighs torrents on the tongue and lip. Tritium, trinity water, three-in-one God’s Sweat condensed on a fuel rod’s throb, Heavy as falling heavens, you weigh . . . . Continue Reading »

Desert Blossoming

From the January 2009 Print Edition

The desert and the parched land will be glad; the wilderness will rejoice and ­blossom. Like the crocus, it will burst into bloom; it will rejoice greatly and shout for joy .”The Book of Isaiah A desert needs only an orphan’s portion of rain on seeds deep and dormant For acres of . . . . Continue Reading »

Background Radiation

From the November 2008 Print Edition

Grace bathes us Inside and out, most of it passing right through, Our neuron mesh not fine enough to stop it Much less deflect its quantum beeline through space. We are sieves with holes the size of eyes, Splayed fingers trying to lift a beach. The pulse Is our built-in Geiger counter and the best . . . . Continue Reading »

0’, 0’

From the June/July 2007 Print Edition

Where Equator and Prime Meridian cross is the one True Cross, the rood’s wood warped and tacked pole to pole. Constantine’s mother wrapped in sackcloth a splinter of it, Jerusalem souvenir. His fingertips tickle where they meet in the skies over Fiji. A nail pegs foot, foot, and Ross ice shelf, . . . . Continue Reading »