Lisa McCabe reads and writes in Lahave, Nova Scotia, Canada. She studied film at York University and English Literature at The University of North Carolina, Greensboro. She has published poems in The Sewanee Review, Better Than Starbucks, Limestone Review, Black Bough, and various online and print journals. Although she no longer lives in Worcester, Massachusetts, she considers All Saints Episcopal Church, her home congregation.
Man enters classroom, opens fire; Five Amish girls will die today— Doves take flight from schoolhouse spire. Two daughters cast upon the pyre Their lives in hope it might allay The man with gun who opens fire. While outside, as police conspire— the press reports, the parents pray; Doves will cry, hearts expire. Word travels…
She was wont to laugh, then not at all. She stood at the door dripping rain, He waved her in, he was on a call — a parishioner ringing to complain. She was wont to laugh, then not at all. “They think you are of ill repute and lacking in propriety that you would wear…
Sanguine clot on an altar of white,singular or sparse clustered, drippedas from a painter’s brush, smudgedblood print against a vernal shroud, tripartite leafed, yellow exclamations hold its center.Wakerobin, birth-ease, red eye amidstthe common trillium, by what mythis your incongruity clarified or entered but by a woman conjured to a fleeing doe,a hunter’s arrow in her…
