Christina Rikkers

POETRY

God

I fell down the subway station stairs and shattered
my ankle, and all I could do was say sorry.
My leg swelled green like a new balloon
and the shock set me on fire, vision swimming,
a shrinking vignette, and I kept saying, “I’m sorry,”
“Thank you,” and “What do you need me to do?”
with artificial bright eyes, like tumbling
down concrete wasn’t a thing I did, like I wasn’t expanding
with new bruises, like they needed me.
“What can I do?”

I think this is how God sees me: torn cartilage
and ruptured ligaments, disjointed fingers held out
in protest, still trying to get a handle
on my transit card, still asking, “What can I do for you?”,
still saying, “I’m really sorry about this.”

On Singleness at Thirty

After Amy Bornman

I.
How did I end up here again,
hands cupped as for alms, heart
oozing viscera through my fingers?
My grip is slipping.
My grip is slipping, please.

II.
God, I have lived my life
as hallowed ground: sequestered,
hard-packed. What day of creation,
pray tell, did you make the shovel?
Please tell me you made the shovel.

III.
Hope is the carrot
You have dangled before me —
which makes me an ass.
I’m not hungry anymore.
Please. I’m not hungry anymore.

Christina Rikkers lives in Indianapolis, Indiana, with her three cats. Her past work can be found in genesis literary and art magazine. She believes the kindest thing you can do for someone is to tell them the truth. For work, Christina writes. For fun, she also writes. She is not a robot.

Next (Richard A. Decker) >
< Previous (Note from the Editor)

Image is in the Public domain. Modified by Veronica McDonald.