James Matthew Wilson

The swift perched, tweeting like a petty tyrant,     Ruffling the feathers of self-love and power, And dropped his siftings on a fire hydrant . . . . Continue Reading »

VI. Veronica Wipes the Face of Jesus He stopped a moment, when her eyesMet his and grieved to recognize The mark of suffering in his face. With a slow hand, she drew her veil,Revealed herself, ashamed and pale, As if awaiting his embrace. . . . . Continue Reading »

XI. Jesus Is Nailed to the Cross For boys who pull the wings off beetlesOr prick their sisters’ backs with needles,     They spread his hand to take the . . . . Continue Reading »

Ascension Thursday: gone again. My usual panic every year Sets in as the Easter season ends; I’d hoped to reconcile everything, To feel, just once, grace tremble near, In a resurrected, fiery ring. But dry distraction settles in, And with a crow’s beak pecks my breast With hungers and regrets. . . . . Continue Reading »

The evergreens haunt the vineyard’s margin, encircling the bare Truck-and-backhoe mangled hill from whose dry crest I stare Across the lines of planted vines, in early spring; their dry And lightening bark like chicken feet clutching at the sky. The gravel spread about their husks reflects in . . . . Continue Reading »