Rhoni E. Blankenhorn is a writer from the San Francisco Bay Area. She is currently pursuing her MFA at Columbia University, where she serves as Assistant Columns Editor for Columbia Journal. Her work has previously appeared in Hyperallergic, 92Y’s Podium, and the Sarah Lawrence College Visual Arts Review.
I’m sorry for always sneaking
you into my palm
when mom wasn’t looking.
I liked the weight of you.
I liked how the spikes of your halo
turned your head into a hand grenade.
There was something dangerous
about all three inches of you.
Of those on mom’s high altar
you were my favorite, with
your strange smile. You would fall
when the door slammed
or if I vacuumed too close.
Each time, I interpreted this
as a small act of rebellion
a reminder of your potential.
Your wobble-clatter upon the glass
made me believe that the boldness
of your spirit could be condensed
into three naked, brass inches
with a well-patinated ass
and a terrifying amount of hair
for a baby. I took you, impossibility
of god’s entirety, into my palm
as often, and for as long, as I could.