Ron Riekki – Wordgathering

Mister

(listen to the poem, read by Ann van Wijgerden)

The guy at the V.A.
calls me “Mister”
even though I asked for him
to not call me “Mister,”
but he insists, calls me “Mister,”
says he’s going to prescribe me
something
for the tremors
and asks if I’m OK with that

and I say, “OK with that?
Every night,”
I say,
“Every night
is an earthquake,
like windstorm
is my bed
and it feels like
I’m going to be rocked
right off,
shaken
not stirred,
as if I’m about to explode,
so,
yes,
I’m OK with it”

and he says, “Would you like to do follow-up?”

and I say, “I don’t need follow-up,
just the medication”

and he says, “OK, I can’t give you the medication then.
I can only give you the medication if you do follow-up,”

and I say, “Why’d you ask me then?”

and he says, “Because it’s your life.
You can do what I want,”

and I say, “If I could do what I want,
I’d just have you give me the medication”

and he says, “I can’t give you the medication without follow-up”

and I say, “Then give me a follow-up appointment”

and he says, “I don’t think you’ll come in”

and I say, “I’ll come in, if you give me the medication”

and he says, “Mister, I don’t think you’re going to come in,
so I’m not giving you the medication”

and I say, “Can we please not play games?
I just told you how much I need the medication,”

and he says, “Sorry, but I can’t.
But thank you for coming in”
and he says, “Do you know the way out?”

and on the way out
I see a man
getting arrested
in the hallway
and they have us wait
while he gets arrested
and two women who work there
stand next to me
and one says, “It’s getting more and more dangerous to work here”
and the other says, “I wish I worked anywhere else”

and the man gets arrested
and they haul him by me
and the guy looks me in the eyes
and then he’s gone
and there’s nothing else to tell you.

I had a PTSD counselor say to me one time

(listen to the poem, read by Ann van Wijgerden)

“I hate this job”
as if she was confiding in me,
letting me know
how much she trusted me
and it was the start of the session
and I didn’t know how to respond,
but I figured it wasn’t about me,
how she’d walked in late,
looked exhausted,
said she has twenty-five clients a week,
and I figured I’m one of the twenty-five
and her office smelled like candy and dust
and she said,
“But it’s not about me—
how’ve you been doing this week?”
and my words were sort of like
when this guy was wearing a Hawaiian T-shirt
at a thrash metal concert
and I was way in the back
and the lead singer yelled out
to the guy in the T-shirt,
“Why are you wearing that?”
and he yelled out
that you wear an all-black T-shirt
to a metal concert
and not something like a rainbow
and he yelled to the crowd
to tear off the guy’s shirt
and the crowd did
and they threw up
shards
of the shirt
to the lead singer
and he took out a lighter
and lit the Hawaiian shirt
on fire
and my words
felt like that.

“Have you had hallucinations?”

(listen to the poem, read by Ann van Wijgerden)

“Not in a long time.”

“How long?”

“A long time.”

“How long?”

“Since I got out.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Long.”

“OK, but when did you get out?”

“A long time ago.”

“Mister, could you just answer the question.  When did you get out of the military?”

“Well, I never got out of the military, if you want me to be honest.  I’ll probably be in the military forever.  Even when I’m not in the military I’m in the military.”

“OK, so you’re not going to answer.”

“I just answered.”

“I just need a date, the date you got out of the military.”

“I thought you wanted to know if I’m having hallucinations.”

“Are you?”

“Not in a long time.”

In the military, when they would hit us in the skull

(listen to the poem, read by Diane R. Wiener)

it was called training. Only one kid was killed
during training. I grew up near a train wreck.
It was near a lake, the train falling off, into
the water, my mother telling me this when
we were driving by, rural, middle of nowhere.

On the final day of your enlistment in the military, they hand out the PTSD

(listen to the poem, read by Diane R. Wiener)

and it swells inside you
and it retreats into your vesicles
and it falls into your chest
and it mosses up the insides

and ensures you’ll never rest
but they tell me I’m resilient
when they take out my left lung
and the burn piles flowered

the sky with smoke and
we coughed up sick rooms
like absence, and on the final
day of your enlistment,

they ensure your humiliation
was at its max, and the hex’s
presence is like a fist, and
there’s no denial of the past.

About the Author

Ron Riekki has been awarded a 2014 Michigan Notable Book, 2015 The Best Small Fictions, 2016 Shenandoah Fiction Prize, 2016 IPPY Award, 2020 Rhysling Anthology inclusion, 2019 Red Rock Film Fest Award, 2020 Dracula Film Festival Vladutz Trophy, 2019 Très Court International Film Festival Audience Award and Grand Prix, and 2022 Pushcart Prize. Right now, Riekki’s listening to 1972’s “Fallin’ My Star.”

Mister

I had a PTSD counselor say to me one time

“Have you had hallucinations?”

In the military, when they would hit us in the skull

On the final day of your enlistment in the military, they hand out the PTSD

About the Author

Additional Information