Isaiah R. Hicks: 3 Poems
Stream #2, Transit
What was he thinking
When he placed the lightbulb
In the space between his molars?
He bit down, jaw clicking,
The way the baby’s wind-up toy
Pop pops when the teeth of the gears
Slip by one another—
Someone slipped by him
To let a woman take a seat.
The bus driver watched him
Chew glass in the rear view,
Filament caught in his teeth.
A baby cried two seats ahead.
A stranger asked how to make it
Stop. Think. Think if that referred to
The shattering or the sobbing or
The rain or the hyperventilation
Or the hydroplaning or the
Chorus of tires and metal
And slipping and crashes and
Spitting shards like sunflower seeds
Onto the same floor
The baby landed when
Mother wasn’t there or
Father wasn’t quick enough—
Little lamb slipping past his fingers—
The wind-up car speeding headlong
Into the sole of my boot.
What Heavy Rain is Made Of
—After Kiki Petrosino
He lets the rain kiss his skin
Because the color of his double helix
Is probably Black, too.
The father he is lucky to have
Warned him not to say anything to the judge.
Profiled in a Walmart.
Felt like they booked the hearing
Before they booked him at the station.
But his hearing had always been poor,
Deafened by sirens or worse.
Should he become a statistic,
Wear Black not like a funeral,
But like a revival.
Not like a Ceremony, but something slowly
Turning our eyes up to the sky.
Pray the clouds are full of
Something heavy, like hope.
Pray for heavy rain. Please.
Because think about how,
On a summer’s day,
He is reduced to a percentage—
Something unwarranted.
And at that time,
Clouds will flee the scene
As his helices double over—
Still proudly wound—
To dry and stiffen.
A Black body with skin on fire
And a t-shirt whose crimson rings
Begin to swell in the noonday sun.
Stream #46, The Other Side
Last week, you drove to the hospital to visit her.
You entered the room right as the prayer ended.
She felt alright for a bit, but you have always
Known that pain waits to collide with you at
Intersections. Or maybe it sits on your chest
On those nights you lie awake and immobile.
If you do not have anything else, you have the
Expectation. Even the mouse’s heart, without
A body, can continue to beat in a Petri dish until
It, inevitably, cannot be sustained.
You were considering when would be suitable for
You to leave. Perhaps an hour would be enough.
The golden arch you passed on the drive
Back home from the hospital was only half-lit.
You consider taking off your seatbelt,
But even Orion refuses to do so.
More gas for all these miles.
More hands for all this work.
Large birds migrate across a horizon
That will never replicate itself.
She will miss it this time: the clouds
Gliding quietly into twilight, the wind moving
Through the driver-side window
And out the other side.
Isaiah R. Hicks earned his Doctor of Pharmacy degree from Virginia Commonwealth University. His poetry has been published in literary magazines and journals such as The Metaworker (“On Being Home”), The Orchards Poetry Journal Winter 2021 Issue (“Husk”), and Grand Little Things (“Warm Torrent”). He is also the author of a poetry chapbook titled The Things You Cannot Change (BookLeaf Publishing, 2022). Isaiah’s writing is inspired by the works of Larry Levis, Louise Glück, Langston Hughes, W. S. Merwin, Mary Oliver, and more. He currently lives in Knoxville, Tennessee and is a pharmacy resident at the University of Tennessee Medical Center.