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Art in Heaven: two poems by Ron Riekki

Illustration: playful display of bright flowers scattered across the canvas, turquoise, purple, green and yellow, image by Steffi Ihrig, on Pixabay, modified.
image by Steffi Ihrig, on Pixabay, modified

























My grandmother taught me how to pray


right before sleep. She’d stand in the doorway—

me in the bed with my cousin who had cerebral

palsy, and the room’d be lightly painted with

shadows, and she’d have us repeat the Lord’s

Prayer out loud. Our stumbling. Giggles, how

we’d be embarrassed at our mistakes. I’d think:

who art in Heaven. How beautiful a phrase is

that? I’d think of art in Heaven. Of course,

there would be art. Such wonderful art. And

the art I loved was writing. Was words. Is.

And how that is what she would practice with

us. This poem. The recitation. How gorgeous.

And the Bible even says, “when you pray, go

into your room” and we were. This bedroom

that was so simple. Yet had such a unique

light fixture on the ceiling. Not a typical one.

But time spent on it. Art. So simple. It was

everywhere—art. Even in Heaven. Of course,

in Heaven. My God, in Heaven. Just imagine.




*



I love churches


I thought of writing a book

where I simply went to every

church in the counties where


I live. And there are a lot

of churches. All of them,

I feel, have such beauty.


I almost did that book,

but, instead, I decided to

go cover every mass shooting


in the state. We’ve had seven

mass shootings since I started

going to them in July. Seven


in five months. And one of

them was at a church. I drove

to the church. I have a card


that shows I’m a journalist.

The police allowed me to go

up to the sign for the church,


its lawn. I stared. A gunman

had shot multiple people,

ranging from ages 6 to 78.


I stared at the church.

I love churches. I stared.

A photojournalist nearby


started talking to me about

his love of God. He told me

about the heroism of what


happened inside. He didn’t

focus on the shooter. He

focused on the heroes, those


who ran back inside of

the building that the gunman

had set on fire. I thought


of a church on fire. How

opposite of light through

stained-glass windows.


I stared at the church.

I love churches. I stared

at the church.





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Ron Riekki received a Pushcart Prize in 2022.  Right now, he's listening to "Gregorian Chants Honor and Praise Virgin Mary | Holy Chant of the Nuns for Mary."







December 2025 issue


 
 
 

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