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Managing Editor:

Deborah Ryder

Contributing Editors:

Marty Esworthy

Lynn Fetterolf

Randy Lee Gross

Julia Tilley


Christine O'Leary-Rockey

St. Julian of Norwich

“The Trinite is our maker and  keeper, the Trinite is our everlasting lover...and this was shewed in the first… And I said, "Bene-dicite, Domine" -- St. Julian of Norwich

If only Julian could dream, and in that dream she wept roses
Rising from snow the way stalkers
And lovers do.
She would flee their fair lips so round and
Engorged, supple with sex that succumbs
To the bleeding of bedrolls, and biscuits-
The hard round body of Christ administered by pimps
And misfits.

If Julian could weep, and in her weeping ran wild
Racing through gauntlets of flesh and the heat of
The day, her tears were not pearls, no- not as the Lord
Had once promised, but instead became stones
Large enough to kill the Magdalene.
To smash her skull in it’s fullness and beauty,
Crushing the lips that spoke woman on the Sabbath,
Bloody Sabbath, the day of no rest.
For the righteous are forever free to kill.
God placed no bounds upon the righteous- Julian knows this
She knows because she runs from them in her dreams.
Pack -like, they hunt her, driving her from field to stone
Their voices baying through mansions and valleys

Where she wakes within holy walls
And will not leave.
Here, the cattle dogs let her be, the hunters, the Wolves
in priests clothing.
She utters her communion, her white shift heavy
Upon her woman’s body- the body that burns for the Christ as promised.
She would have Christ.
And in her visions he comes.

He woos her with gifts, fever and thorn
In the dark of the day, always within stone, he comes,
Triune and alive.





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