Ron Hickerson 

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.