Because We Live in Constant Doubt, Our Breath Is Momentary
Here is a finger bone
Of Saint Jerome, and here

A frayed bit of rope
From the sandals of Saint Paul.

Here, a handful of straw
From the nativity bed. Here,

A cup of water from the cauldron
Where Saint John

Was martyred. See, it boils
Still. Here in this vial

Is a tear that Mary, Mother
Of God wept when her son

Was crucified. Here in the air
We breathe is the doubt and desire

Of Saint Thomas, ours
Because our lungs are empty.

And here, the darkness that follows us
When we feel assured in our faith.

What Doesn’t Happen Never Always Doesn’t
Fog clarifies by urging you
To pay attention. It’s a small

Price to see the shades
Of gray within the gray,

To see and avoid the girl
Crossing the street on her way

To school. Everything
Is one in the fog, kindred,

Consonant, the girl, the car
You drive, the screech of your braking,

The future, the silence, the silence
Of the girl’s eyes that look

Directly into yours. The fog
Parts for you, the car jolts

Your heart to a stop, and it’s all
Perfectly clear, this thing

That didn’t happen, although
It did. It happened. You know

It did. And now it won’t
Ever stop happening.

A Non-Chronological Account of the Extended Family
This is our Serbia. This
Is our Syria. This is our neo-
Nazi superiority. This
Is our Selma, our Watts, our Boston.
This is our internment camp.
This is our Inquisition, our will
Of God, our holy rack.
This is our Civil War.
This is our lynch mob,
Our imperial justice, our mass
Grave. This is our revolution.

You can learn more about Jeff by clicking on his bio: https://thievingmagpie.org/jeff-mock-bio/