When I left God it was as if from a dream I had heaved up to see myself climbing the mountain pass to where anything I loved (even my own unflinching self) might be tied to rock waiting. Woken on the crag, I reeled against the sky at my side, the knife a shining smile in my hand nearly nicking me. “Wait!” God said giggling. Then cleared his voice to thunder as I turned back down and waved my little blade.

HANNAH RIDDLE is a gay poet from North Carolina. She currently lives in Minneapolis and is pursuing her MFA at the University of Minnesota. Her work has appeared in Inch and The Queer South (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2014).