Susan O’Dell Underwood

Gnosis   I can’t give you everything I know, even if I wished nature held that kind of sway. Take for example the thousand heads I want to show you of grasshopper weeds, their tips like fragile, flaming fleece, bobbing one wave in the final pentecost of dusk. Go with me while I walk, each

Susan O’Dell Underwood

God as Redbud   The spring pink fog of simple ghosts like hosts of harmonizing choruses, their low strummed alto sostenuto revives and revives and revives along the highway, this stepping forward sprightly lithesome line nothing like bright dogwood sopranos, but a whispered tonal wayward zone, a wily tribe, their every twig singing with tremulous,

Susan O’Dell Underwood

Annunciation   You have to believe this gospel is man-made, the oil paint luminous as pain, the angel dressed in blood red. No woman would frame this sacred moment inside a gilded trap so garish and so public. No woman gestates willfully the glory of certain death. Here is sacrifice forced upon her, the rapturous