The following editorial statement from issue 86 of Image is adapted from a commencement address given at the Seattle Pacific University MFA in creative writing graduation in Santa Fe on August 8, 2015. “The great poet does not completely fill out the space of his theme with his words. He leaves a space clear, into which another and higher poet can speak.” —Max Picard, The World of Silence Graduation marks the moment when you leave the community that... Read more
Sometimes I take the Host in the mouth, other times I take it in the hand. Mostly I take it in the mouth. That’s because of the strangeness of it, the good strangeness. I don’t generally let other people feed me, let alone grown men. Let alone priests. So, this meal is not like other meals. It is a meal that challenges my desire to have control of what goes into me and how. In this meal, I like to... Read more
By Brian Volck This post was made possible through the support of a grant from The BioLogos Foundation’s Evolution and Christian Faith program. The opinions expressed are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of BioLogos. Though I’ve heard it said otherwise, the Great Wall of China is not the only evidence of human artifice visible to inhabitants of the International Space Station. Among the more prominent is Lake Powell, the now drought-shrunken reservoir behind the... Read more
When I die, Lord, let me go in a plane crash, spiraling down, earthward, earthward, apportioned enough time to pray but not nearly enough to forget what we’re all prone to forget: that the end comes, it rushes up to greet us, every one in flight. What I’d pray in my downfall is: forgive, sweet Christ, forgive, and this: let me see. Let me see myself in your mirror so I may know, before the end, if I am known.... Read more
At five a.m. this morning, my husband woke me while taking money from my wallet to buy donuts for himself and our fourth child who was to accompany him to the lumberyard. He was buying wood to build a picnic table and a couple of porch swings. My husband shouldn’t be driving a car. He shouldn’t be making things with wood yet. He had shoulder surgery several weeks ago, and at this point, his arm should be immobilized ninety percent... Read more
By John Bryant I found him at Subway, an old man in a brown jacket, boots, jogging pants, standing in the small space between the table and deli counter. He shut his eyes so he could hide himself under them, in a place where the cold and his age couldn’t find him. Eyes closed tight so he wouldn’t fall out of his eyes and land in the Subway, in his body, like a fish flopping in a bucket. There was... Read more
In my world, a typical book signing involves sitting behind a small publisher’s table at the annual AWP Conference book fair. Along with dozens of other poets throughout the day, I peer at passersby like a shelter dog whose time has run out. If I’m lucky, someone might stop to say hello, taking a complimentary butterscotch disc as they shuffle away without my book. “Got just one carry-on bag this year,” they’ll say. “You know how it is.” The book... Read more
By Tali Rose Treece Every day as I walked to school I saw them through the window: eating lunch, playing games, laughing. After a semester of passing by that window, I stopped one day and walked through the door. “What can I do for you?” asked the woman at the front desk. “I’m wondering if you’re hiring,” I said. “We are! Fill out this application.” The next day I was called in for an interview and after a short talk... Read more
By Daniel Taylor Is The Great Gatsby a crime novel? (There’s a murder.) Crime and Punishment? (It’s in the title.) Moby Dick? (Oh the whales!) People like to make distinctions between mystery, crime, and detective fiction. But what’s the essence of a good mystery? What are the boundaries of what constitutes a crime? How narrowly professional or intentional does a character have to be to be considered a detective? And how do any of the novels in this loose genre relate... Read more
By Shannon Huffman Polson I’d just put my two young sons to bed when I opened the computer to see the picture of Aylan. My sons are two and five, and the youngest has round soft legs, like Aylan, and little shoes, like Aylan. I saw the picture of Aylan and felt my blood go cold. That day I had been humming through hymns in some music planning for our small startup Episcopal community in rural Washington. “We are one... Read more
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