by Erik Soto

Soft-brained
and sallow-skinned,
I lie on a white stretcher.
The sting of IV syringe
spreads throughout
my forearm

Can you hear me, son?

I hear God’s
silence.
This is how I know
he’s a man.
How many times,
under the quiet
of waxing moons,
have I held rosaries
praying for his love?
A sign from him,
whether it be
a whisper,
a breeze,
or the illusion
of holy light,
could have tamed
my fear of falling
into my father’s
addictions.

Where does it hurt the most?

Sometimes I think
an odyssey isn’t
an odyssey
unless pain is involved.
Like how a man
isn’t a man
unless his hands
are calloused and scarred.
This is how I know
God is a man.
He only saved his son
after he saw
the holes in his palms.

Is there anyone we should contact?

I could slice
open the insides
of a sheep,
set up altars
decorated with marigolds,
or self-inflict
starvation as a sign
of penance and God
would still ignore
my calling
for a cosmic
relief.
How many more silences
do I have to endure
for God to consider me
a man
worth saving

Erik Manuel Soto’s poems have appeared in Zaum Magazine’s 21st and 22nd editions, Volt 27, the Nevada poetry project, Huizache (forthcoming), and Drunk Monkeys (forthcoming). A Mexican American writer, Erik grew up in the Bay Area where he currently resides. He earned an MFA degree from the University of Nevada, Reno in the spring of 2023.

Erik Manuel Soto’s poems have appeared in Zaum Magazine’s 21st and 22nd editions, Volt 27, the Nevada poetry project, Huizache (forthcoming), and Drunk Monkeys (forthcoming). A Mexican American writer, Erik grew up in the Bay Area where he currently resides. He earned an MFA degree from the University of Nevada, Reno in the spring of 2023.