From the Managing Editor
Angela Doll Carlson
“If you don’t know the kind of person I am
and I don’t know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the
and following the wrong god home we may miss
–William Stafford, “A Ritual to Read to Each Other”
Breaking news shouts at us from billboards, newspapers on racks, televisions in restaurants, and radios blaring. We are surrounded by reports which press in from all sides demanding space in our brains, and our bodies.
We should pay attention to the condition of the world– to be good global citizens, to commit to seek peace in the world.
I am drawn time and time again to this poem from William Stafford. I feel the truth of it in my skin each time my heartrate increases in response to the headlines. I make poetry a medication, hoping to ease the tension with wisdom, with beauty, with truth– or else face the blunt reality that, as Mother Theresa reminds us, “if we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other.”
This issue of Saint Katherine Review is presented as both a balm and a challenge, meant to aid us in that call to remember that we belong to each other. The poetry sculpted with long yawns of verse and short bursts of rhythm as in Devon Miller-Duggan’s Proper Abecedarian 26: Embrace or Raina Joines’ The Forerunner. Prose that roughs us up as in Philip Kobylarz’ The Eternal Non-Returnable and smooths us over again as in Aline Mello’s Drawing Smoke. Stories like Only Connect by Jeffrey S. Markovitz that breathe with description and conflict and sighs in the dark.
William Carlos Williams tells us, “It is difficult to get the news from poems, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.” And we agree– it is difficult, but the life-saving grace we desperately need does come through if we look for it.
Paul T. Corrigan
Suzanne Underwood Rhodes
Jeffrey S. Markovitz
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written by raina Joines
Tags for the stiffs, a smoke break, fresh gloves,
the night’s first autopsy a ritual.
Twilight bruises flush and come of age.
Lividity, the liver, twin lobes:
red iron running through these troubled lives,
each cold run a practice for the last.
The scalpel tray gleams like a winter moon,
worried silver rattling the staff.
A patient final cut already sketched—
measured gestures looping, washed in milky light—
a straight, quick scission. The delicate hands
a porcelain cup and saucer set on steel.
Each organ brought to balance in its turn.
Light fingers on thin lids, the final Y,
the cage uncovered, all dark birds flown.
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