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Immigrant Churches In Hartford they’re rearranging the big churches immigrants built. No one attends church anymore. The mouth is where a biblical God and our dead live. When strangers name my places in the South End like Franklin Avenue, Frog Hollow, Charter Oak Terrace, and Hillside Avenue, I remember the church, St. Lawrence O’Toole, where I kissed the dried skin of a dead Pope in a glass locket held by a nun. Which of all my actions have been sacred acts? We want to cleanse intentions with simple rites. We believe conceptions can be immaculate. But when I listen, God brings my words to ruin. I lose courage in sentence, prayer and holy water. Garrett Phelan Garrett Phelan is the author of the poetry collection Outlaw Odes (Antrim House Books) and micro-chapbooks Unfixed Marks and Standing where I am ((Origami Poem Project). His poems have appeared in a variety of publications including Potomac Review, Connecticut River Review, Word Riot, Ekphrastic Review, Off the Coast, decomP, Unbroken Journal, and Leaping Clear. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee.
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The Ekphrastic Review
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January 2026
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