Flighty Hands
by Saga Ringmar


Do I believe in god?
You ask me and I can't escape the allure of your eyes
the way your hands are perched on the armrest
as if awaiting a suitable time for flight.
Do I believe in god?
About as much as I believe daffodils
are the souls of the dead, reaching at the topsoil whispering a “hello”.
A thought that enhances the beauty of this dark world
and my muggy conscience. Yet a thought slighted when I
pull the daffodil to reveal a lone root.
Do I believe in god?
About as much as I believe my mother will live forever.
A thought that – without which – my life would
be a soggy depression, worth nothing. And yet a
thought proved false by previous merciless sacrifices,
and orphaned children.
No, I do not believe in god. Not unless he is the human
form of coincidence, his long flowing hair the locks
of man's diligence,
And the callouses on his fingers a
metaphor for man's self-made evil.
Everything is either natural or unnatural,
that is why some cry upon the sight of death and others do not.
But I sit here gladly and watch your fingers fly.
I'll write a poem or two in the meanwhile.






Copyright 2019 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.