By Nicole Yurcaba
At 8 AM–a muggy July Tuesday,
on the cluttered front porch where the cats
clawed one another’s faces, God sat
on a decrepit metal chair. I sat
across from him, sipping hot peach tea
with honey. God leaned forward, looked
at me with his green eyes. Are you ready?
He asked. Before I could answer, He reached
for my sternum. I unzipped from my center;
my flesh separated; my bones glared; my
heart slipped between my second & third
ribs. God took it in His hands, bit into it
with His perfectly aligned teeth which he
brushed four times per day. As He swallowed,
He belly-laughed then offered me a joint
Nicole Yurcaba (Ukrainian: Нікола Юрцаба) is a Ukrainian-American poet and essayist. Her poems and essays have appeared in The Atlanta Review, The Lindenwood Review, Whiskey Island, Raven Chronicles, Appalachian Heritage, North of Oxford, and many other online and print journals. Nicole holds an MFA in Writing from Lindenwood University, is the recipient of a July 2020 Writing Residency at Gullkistan, Creative Center for the Arts in Iceland, and is a Tupelo Press June 2020 30 for 30 featured poet. Her poetry collection Triskaidekaphobia is forthcoming Black Spring Group in 2022. She teaches poetry workshops for Southern New Hampshire University and works as a career counselor for Blue Ridge Community College.
This is magnificent.
God as the Aztec monarch next door — ouch! captures that sense of total betrayal of trust as well as the physical trauma endured. Such a torturously well-crafted poem!