Palm Sunday

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The only thing staining my palms is Sharpie ink. A hypocrite who loves liturgy and science isn’t likely to bleed for her faith, though I watched that movie last night on cable, the one with Gabriel Byrne as the sexy priest and Patricia Arquette as the unduly afflicted, and I stare at my palms all through church willing them to bleed something other than a grocery list, thinking how good it would feel to be a saint, thinking how I need to write milk on my hand before I...

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Waiting for Summer

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I crave sexand fried chickenand the taste of a beer-covered tongue in my mouth when I’ve beendrinking wine. I crave mudand bare feetand watermelon juice dripping down my chin drying sticky on mybare chest. I crave heatand strong thighsand Texas thunderstorms in late July that make grasshoppersbe still. I crave choresand clean sheetsand my dinner table when it is loud with laughter from fullbellies post debate. I crave sparklersand sleeping inand slipping my soles right out of these leather...

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