R. Riekki



For Tara
I’m a sugarplum fairy, a blueberry cock, the cop
who lets you off, a sugarcane cunt. I’m a belly-
flop, a Corina Copp, a missing mistress with
a corridor toy. I’m a dark-chocolate martyr,
a metal-head EMT b-boy. I’m a levitating failure,
a cougar, a sorghum banshee. I pop mo’er-
fucks. I shop in the shittiest malls. I cough
so much that my cologne’s Halls. I stop traffic
for nothing, throwing rocks on medians. I’m smelly—
brain full of spies, garlic in my asshole. I’m a cork,
a forty-foot pole. I’m a poet, which means I’m Spock
without the intelligence. I’m a Dirk Diggler
without the abundance. A pre-steroid Carrot Top.
A Tarot deck warning sign. A goblin with a Valentine.


A corpse.
Another corpse.
The age—
I don’t want to talk about it.
The cops.
More cops.
God, even more police.
A cœur.
It stops.
There’s no career
in minimum wage.
I’m sick of all this shit.
I mean, feces.
A bad neighborhood.
Another bad neighborhood.
A ditch.
We crash into it.
I’m fired.
More blood.
A dead man on a tennis court.
He looks like Jesus.

R. RIEKKI‘s non-fiction, fiction, and poetry have been published in River Teeth, Spillway, New Ohio Review, Shenandoah, Canary, Bellevue Literary Review, Prairie Schooner, New Orleans Review, Little Patuxent Review, Wigleaf, B O D Y, and many other literary journals.


Read more by R. Riekki:

Poem in B O D Y
Fiction In Blue Fifth Review
Fiction in Moonshot Magazine
In Verse Wisconsin