Do what you can
The chef is at my house for supper. He reclines at my
Kitchen table drinking wine as I prepare the meal—I
Practiced cooking it until I was sick of the taste, but
This is the first time he watches me. I wonder if he
Sees the stains on my stovetop, the smears on my fridge, and hope
To God he doesn’t check the microwave. The smoke alarm
Jars me out of my worries and brings me back to the stove.
Our dinner is soot. I look to the table. His eyes meet
Mine. ‘What do you have?’ he asks. I rummage through my cupboard.
‘Not much.’ He approaches me smiling. ‘I can work with that.’
Acatamiento
The world demands attention. Every notification—
Celebrity gossip, political gaffes, likes, shares, and
Comments on your recent posts—feeds the unending loop of
Dopamine and serotonin until you’re spent. Every
Cause—war overseas, terror at home, economic ups
and downs, human rights victories and violations—craves
Awareness and activism. Earthly cares are like a
Prism, scattering my view with each facet until I
Lose sight of the sacred in the mundane—the Imago
Dei in every face, the Presence in each interaction,
The Sabbath in every lull. I forget the world’s bigger
than the palm of my hand or the strokes of my keyboard, but
Then the light shines through my window, and I turn to look out.
The clouds part and I see the sky for the first time in weeks.
La Cena del Cordero
At Revelation’s end, Babylon’s demise is followed by a wedding feast.
As a kid, I hated weddings. The only fun parts were eating the cake I
Eyed for hours and throwing birdseed at the happy couple out of revenge.
But John’s reception isn’t a staid affair. I caught a glimpse of this supper
To come in a bustling Taqueria, engulfed in celebration’s roar, on
A Saturday night. There, I couldn’t focus on conversations aimed at me—
I was too busy counting the margarita towers and wishing I had, at
Least ordered a beer. I watched a corner booth of tipsy women smile and
Laugh wildly each time they drained a tower to fill their cups. I heard the clink
Of glasses as parties proposed toasts to birthday guests and downed shots of Mezcal
To warm their bodies against the cold January night. In here, it was the
Tropics. It was a summer happy hour. It was refuge against the work
Week and the loneliness of adult life, where bills and taxes would love nothing
Better than to arrest you and drag you away from your succulent meal. In
Here was rest, found in the marriage supper of a gordita con cachete.
Ron Hickerson works in higher education where he helps students navigate the murky waters of academia. When he’s not in his office, you can find him wandering around campus, looking for the oldest trees. His previous works can be found in The Clayjar Review and Foreshadow.