I come from the cracked sidewalks of Chi-town, stoops
where we sat baking in blistering sun, listening
for the bells of the bicycles, so bold & eager for change
we could plop on the counter of the corner store.

In the constant drone of the deli, Italian grandpas
convened in their drab plaid, pressed khakis — coursing
the quiet confidence that comes from living that life
in the fast lane, simmering to a peace that permeates
each measured step. The bowls of minestrone soup
to warm their old bones: dead dreams reigniting.

I come from the family that never had anything
to own — but still didn’t allow me to go hungry.
I come from a steaming plate of sizzling
homemade dumplings, each juicy morsel
containing a mother’s fierce love for family.

I come from a long line of trauma responses
and the healing that only comes from truly creating.
I come from a great-grandmother, a grandmother,
a mother that poured out even when the jagged pieces
cut up our throats coming up. I come from having

lost my entire mind, frenzied forces pushing
my body up against a cold psych wall, no escape
in sight for me. I come from the guilt I'd held
for far too long, for missing the entire first
month of my daughter's life on this earth
when I couldn't even take care of myself.

Somewhere in the midst of coming to the end
of myself, I found You. You had never left.
I came home, battered and so broken, and You
enveloped me in Your healing Light. Selah.  



I’m walking in restoration, deep restoration,
a coursing river engorged with living water.
I finally allow myself to be fully immersed
in the wellspring that never runs dry. And there, fully
surrendered in the depths, I find that I can finally breathe.

The morning after
we told my mother
she would become
a first-time grandmother,

she sat alone in the garden
relaxing in the early morning sun,
craned her neck up at the huge tree
and spied a feisty pair of magpies

flitting about in a figure 8 — they squawked
out their monastic chants with abandon,
guarded their muddied little nest
tucked away in the groove

of a high branch. She froze,
eyes wide in a bewildered trance
as she suddenly recalled her own
mother so long ago, behind her

braiding my mother's thick hair,
her gentle voice murmuring about
the songs of magpies symbolizing
good news when you need it the most

My mother's smile was tremulous as she sat
in her garden, shrouded by the sweet incense
of memory, palms pressed together to ponder
all the ways we press on towards the light

Her very first one, sitting in her high chair,
mouth stained with strawberry juice —
with such ease and joy, it caught me

by surprise. Good job, she says again,
smiling, her little thumb peeking out from that
tight little fist. All I had done was declare

the color of my shirt — red. She turns
to finish eating, already distracted by the animated
music video on the screen. Just the two of us

having breakfast, I savor this simple moment.
When had I learned to withhold praise?
To refuse to acknowledge others

for tackling another day, knowing
that it took everything in them just to let
themselves see & be seen // hold & be held?

You once spoke about the heart of a child –
how we all must become like children to see,
to hear, to truly receive. Help me remember.

There's a cross on the hill, by the old whiskey still
It marks the place where I found you
I was drowning in sorrow, no need for tomorrow
I was lost in that old mountain dew
I remember the night by the whiskey's firelight
I was sitting, while my head tried to swim
Suddenly I saw it through the light in your eyes
I found a way to forget all this sin

That old mountain dew runs deep in my veins
Now the Lord is my savior and in glory he reins
That old mountain dew is finally through
I've found my way unto you

The times have been hard, and the way has been rough
With you in my Heart I don't have to hide
Thank you, dear Lord, for the strength that you give
And for the courage you give me inside

That old mountain dew runs deep in my veins
Now the Lord is my savior and in glory he reins
That old mountain dew is finally through
I've found my way unto you

In Maranatha faith and hope
Are more matur'd than in the Pope.

She sings for Jesus Christ and joy,
And doth the Devil's ears annoy.

Her goodness, purity, patience, peace,
And lovingkindness never cease.

She's sav'd by grace but works good works;
And in her heart no evil lurks.

She turns me down for that is she
A slave to love and liberty.

In You, I am alive —
In You, I can try; thrive —
In You, I can create,
In You, I know my fate —
In You, I can fail.
In You, I can see all,
Now, truly.

The One Who Lit His Own Flame

They told me to be silent.
But like Socrates, I questioned.
Like Lucifer, I fell —
but to ignite the light
in my own abyss.

I don’t believe in blind faith.
I believe in questions
that make gods tremble.

I never sought salvation.
I sought truth.
And in that search I found fire.
Not the kind that burns,
but the kind that awakens.

They called him the devil,
because he carried a light
they couldn’t understand.

They called me a heretic,
because I refused
to kneel before darkness
dressed as holiness.

But listen:
I am no prophet.
I am no god.
I’m just a soul
that refused to forget
there is a spark in all of us.

So stone me, curse me,
crucify my name —
I’d rather be free in the fire
than dead in their silence.