Jane Hahn

Feast of the Crippled

Even the dust he clapped from his sandals rises, an epiphany, in the vacant dawn. The chaff surrenders to sunless wind, and even sinners know the nullity of the flameā€™s embrace. The agony is not in what we are but in what we might have been. Fishhooks glint from the red-root wound, pulsing and snagging […]