William Kelley Woolfitt

One more time, Brother Albion draws the tank-air through his oxygen hose and rubber mask. He preaches, shape us on the potter’s wheel, he grunts,...

that he scalds in the speckled canner, drives to the coin laundry for the dryers (even the threadbare can be soft again). That she irons, pats, folds with lavender....

when you stand with the men, when you love, and do not despise, and peel off Brother Ivan’s moist socks— his feet two toads, bumpy, swollen,...

My head clangs, my skin congealswhen I imagine your final terrain:the moldering gloom of the cave,giant stone corking the mouthto seal your body in—...