• Marc-Henri Sandoz

Poetry by Hannah Laurence


Hannah Laurence is a former Catholic with a theology degree who writes poetry from among the buckwheat and black sage on unceded Kumeyaay land, fermenting gut reactions to patriarchy, agnosticism, and the shedding that accompanies growth. Their poems are a place to sit alone together, wanting answers and needing questions. Find her at hannahlaurence.com


This blog section is dedicated to publishing guest posts from authors expressing different opinions and points of view about spirituality. The accent is on faith deconstruction, spiritual and church abuse, and how to build a free and healthy spirituality outside the box of religion.






Fig Leaves Aside


Isn’t gatekeeping


the garden


the greater sin?



The Night Is Dark


You are the night to me

They, the well-intentioned lights


By lamp I toil

They urge—I spin


I hear nothing from you

And so assume

This is how it is


Pupils perpetually constricted

I cannot see

Your gentleness

That our bond lies in a bed

Like in another boat

That my very tiredness


Is your invitation



All the Bushes Are Burning


All the bushes are burning

Sunlit, leaves turning


I hear the voice of god



Peddlers of Certainty


These kind-faced peddlers of certainty hawking

Things to satisfy

A lid for the boiling

Pressure builds a vacuum seal


Having lived a short distance from my body

Ever since they blushed at my humanity

I have wandered further

Bodiless

In search of fig leaves and a needle

And something unbearably hard to call home


How well they taught me, those kind-faced peddlers:

Spirit over matter

Over me

An interwoven, timeful creature


As the sand falls it stretches into eternity

And the gate into my garden telescopes

Unlocked and out of reach


And we—

Magnets forced together—

Look at our feet


And these babes—

Who can’t chew apples

And are born naked—

Make it awkward

Looking

And reaching

Until we cure them of it with

A cold shoulder to cry on


And some conditional love