Everything is organized
After the divorce, after the kids
are finally sleeping, I open
the kitchen drawer and stare
at the new knives arranged neatly
on soft black shelf liner,
and I weep as if someone has died.
My father has, of course,
but only now, years later
do I miss his slowness,
his somehow mournful
joy in watching this world.
And what is this world
we have created? Who
are these children, cursing us
because we made them;
full of black joy
for the shadows they are
or will become,
they race the sun
sliding over the rocks
that skirt the lake, then sliding
further, past its never ending
awakening -- and everything
in its place still;
the poor knives that dream
on their black bed, and brush
softly against each other, barely touching,
and the lonely spoons
that spend their first night shining
in the clean rubber compartment,
back to back, unable to turn
and face each other;
waiting only
to carry our endless hunger, to feel
the hot wash of purity
storm across their bodies
night after night.
A graduate of San Diego State University’s MFA Program, Christine Rikkers lives in Montreal where she is busy raising two beautiful children and teaching English at Vanier College. When she first moved to Canada in 2010, she was chosen for the Quebec Writers Federation (QWF) Mentorship Program, where she was privileged to work with the poet Anita Lahey as her mentor. Her work has been published in a number of American and Canadian literary journals, including Louisville Review, Portland Review, Contemporary Verse 2, Cold Mountain Review, Tidal Basin Review, DMQ Review and Raw Art Review.