Annunciations                                 on attending a Marie Howe reading By Terri McCord The poet, hair massed like moist cradling hay, spoke first of Mary, said                   we could all be mothers of Jesus—quoting Meister Eckhart. The podium flowers shed as she read—small tufts as from baby fowl. My first bed was a drawer, and, later, when I had a crib, my mother left me belly-down, legs        wish-boned until... Read More