A sampling (for more, including information on where the following poems first appeared, see the “Published Work” page)
ACEDIA
And he gave them their request, but sent leanness into their soul. Psalm 106:15
Our arms, they feel like lead; the spoon slips back
into the bowl; its weight too much to bear.
But did we really want the soup at all?
It stuffs our bellies sick, that’s all; because
desire’s edges have been cauterized,
we hardly know when we’ve been satisfied.
In fact, the satisfaction feels so thin.
Our heavy eyelids, limpid limbs can’t strive
or wait or sacrifice, can’t bear the weight
of living—nothing’s worth the hassle now
or worth the cost in time or sweat or love.
And in our ear the whine of Is this all?
Yes, is this all there is? We find no strength
to slap at the mosquito in our ear.
We’re granted what we think we wanted, but
we pay with souls that are dis-eased; we’re lost
and harried every day, distracted. Yet
that hum—it’s lurking always in the back
of memory (the bit we haven’t yet
destroyed or labeled as nostalgia)—says
You’re sick—and now and then another one
explodes, and no one says We’re sick, that’s why
the gun, the bomb, the knife, the chosen death.
It must all be taboo, and so we smirk
because today there’s nothing holy left.
At least, there’s nothing worth so much we’d want
to change our habits, pleasures, license for.
It’s like a thin and poisoned vapor cools
the center of our hearts, the inner life
we held in common once, distinct in all
its diverse beauty and varieties—
the part that thrilled to all the old and deep
imaginations, poems, prayers, and songs,
the store of wisdom passed along the way.
We’ve thinned ourselves—our very selves—and now
the mist asphyxiates, our senses dull
and we can’t bring ourselves to care, or weep
for all that we’ve forgotten, left behind.
And we’ve lost more than we can ever hope
to gain again. We find our love grown cold.
© 2025 Rachel E. Hicks, Accumulated Lessons in Displacement
(Resource Publications)
DREAM
We were held captive, were being sorted.
Most of us were given a choice: some indistinct camp
or Great Lavra: an ancient monastery, a remote steppe.
I knew that was the place, though winter was beginning.
We might be able to scavenge (they said) for food, for kindling.
As we arrived, a late and weak sun shone blue on the snow.
At my feet in a basket: five baby chicks already stiff with frost.
It felt like the end of the world—the end of everything.
I feared, then, the coming hardship; knew some of us
would not see spring. Yet the displaced monks
made room for us, swept aside piles of books, papers;
thinned their soup, put out more bowls in loving silence.
This was a holy place: I understood we would suffer
whatever came with the monks. The snow on the ground
was blue; the light was fading. We were too many, too ill-clad.
I was afraid—yet not afraid. The monks made room for us.
When I woke up, I wanted to return.
© 2025 Rachel E. Hicks, Accumulated Lessons in Displacement
(Resource Publications)
THE EXILE SPEAKS OF MOUNTAINS
In the Himalayan foothills during monsoon
the electricity once stayed off
for fifteen days. Every morning there was chai
with sugar cubes and buffalo milk, delivered
to our kitchen door in tin carafes
strapped with thick ropes to a mule.
We kept warm by feeding the stove
log after log and entertained by watching
our spit sizzle on its tin top.
My brother held my hand on the trail
to and from school, scanning for leopard scat
or for thieving langur monkeys in the trees.
I write this from my brick colonial in Baltimore,
decades removed, drinking black tea
with thick cream and sugar—
the heat of exile churning in my blood.
I drive an SUV, shop at Target, and fight tears
at random moments, like when I open
the door and enter the Punjab store
down on 33rd, suddenly and viscerally at home
among the turmeric and cardamom,
the Neem soaps and steaming samosas
under foil on the counter, while the kind owner
offers a mango juice box to my daughter.
Only if I embrace this life as a perpetual pilgrim
do I find solace in remembering
the terraced cemetery in the Himalayan pines
where the mute woman and her donkey
guard the graves, the distant beat of tabla drums,
the bounce of our flashlights on the trail
walking home at night, thrill of leopards
in the dark, the high peak of Bandarpunch
to the north, glowing in moonlight.
© 2025 Rachel E. Hicks, Accumulated Lessons in Displacement
(Resource Publications)
QUIDDITY
A bird must be known this way:
breathe with the flock as it lifts, settles.
Gaze down on haloed heads,
ribbon rivers, the geometric plain;
feel thermals sifting feathers,
air down the bone’s hollow.
Rejoice in the provision
of the daily worm.
In this way you will inhabit
not just the bird
but your own life.
You’ll know the sum
that out-glorifies
parts, function, need.
You’ll learn to praise distinctions—
will find yourself
giddy, whispering names:
chickadee, junco, redwing.
© 2025 Rachel E. Hicks, Accumulated Lessons in Displacement
(Resource Publications)
IT WASN'T ODD
Last night I dreamed my elderly neighbor
sought me out, found me upstairs in my bedroom.
Ms. Dinty — her trademark black baseball cap,
gold-crowned teeth flashing a grimace this time,
not her mischievous smile — climbed into the bed
I had just vacated in surprise, remarked
on its warmth in the early light. I’m dying,
she said, shivering. It’s coming now, baby.
I hovered, then climbed in beside her,
wrapped my arms around her, whispered
how do you know? Maybe I didn’t ask
her aloud. She just breathed in, then out.
Because it was a dream it wasn’t odd
that the two of us lay there warming,
silent, unafraid. That I wanted this
to be how she was ushered on.
© 2025 Rachel E. Hicks, Accumulated Lessons in Displacement
(Resource Publications)
CAMEO
You hold a ready lens to each scene and verse
waiting for yourself to come into focus: you’re Joseph—
Judases for brothers, final recompense for your hurts—
or Moses — eyes searching watery walls you’ve stepped between
for shadow creatures, fissures, but on you walk, aware of trust,
scanning for evidence of God in the seams—
or perhaps an exile returning from Babylon — the crust
of years falling from you, the shofar sounding its jubilant note
as the last foundation stone settles in the dust.
Yet what if you are not the favored son, but one who woke
from dreams, number twelve in line for daddy’s attentions,
trafficked for debt or indifferent profit, smote
by an obscure hand, no dancing exodus;
rather, death by your stripes in the shadows of a limestone
mausoleum, born one generation too early for deliverance?
What if exile makes such bitter work of your bones
and brittle heart, the others must kiss you and depart
to witness the stones’ rebirth, while you remain alone?
The initial taste of meekness is tart
as you adjust to your bit part.
© 2025 Rachel E. Hicks, Accumulated Lessons in Displacement
(Resource Publications)
SPEAK LIKE RAIN
Kikuyu farm youth to Karen Blixen, after she
recited verses of poetry to them
Speak like rain, sister,
those smooth, plump drops that beat
water-rhythm on our chests—
words shaped like the curve
of an ear, the cup above the lobe—
fill it again.
Speak again, the rain
has been too long in coming
and this scorched sod waits;
words flew on wings and
summoned the plovers hunting
for new grass.
Speak like rain, play
those tricks with light and clouds,
hope and dry craziness;
words that smell far away
like the sea drifted here just now—
tasting of salt.
© 2025 Rachel E. Hicks, Accumulated Lessons in Displacement
(Resource Publications)
HOSPITALITY
Sichuan, China
In the lean-to kitchen the farmer’s wife
juliennes and crushes, shivers of onion
flying from the blade, steam hitting
cold mist at the open door.
I thrust booted feet at the tin
of hot coals under the table outside
and wait, wondering how many
spontaneous meals have serviced me
in my wanderlusting? How much
ambrosial heat, sear and spice,
plumping bulgar and pitted peach?
It seems to be our needful thing
to forage for the magic within our reach—
the translucent rice grains,
the flesh of all creatures griddled or charred,
the way we wonder if nourishment exists
in snapdragon, the cathaya’s winged seed—
all the tastes we haven’t dared.
And we wonder if the damp earth still
has secrets to disclose that could remain
wondrous and unstained even by our knowing,
our prodding and splitting
with the knife or the tongue.
She emerges balancing three dishes
on outstretched arms and sets them
on the table, shrinking back in pleasure
and gesturing with a gentle turn of hand.
Eat! It’s just a little something.
© 2025 Rachel E. Hicks, Accumulated Lessons in Displacement
(Resource Publications)
