WHEN I SAID I WASN’T AFRAID OF WINTERING
I meant I wasn’t weeping as much as I was
wasting time studying the effects of radiance
as compared to contagion. Believe me,
the way the town square empties now, how
the market falls at slightest cough, which is not
to say I naysay, but that I believe there is a season
for soil, for settling in. The truth is who knows
how this will all pan out, pandemic waking me up
at three, laying waste to the night. I asked the devil
to bring me another glass of Plague-water because
there is a season for rue and acrimony, and another one
for nightmares. Believe me, during this epidemic
I juggle pandemonium, weep radiant tears, bury
my dead over and over again.
Poet and photographer, RONDA PISZK BROATCH is the author of Lake of Fallen Constellations (MoonPath Press, 2015). Ronda was a finalist for the Four Way Books Prize, and her poems have been nominated several times for the Pushcart Prize. Her journal publications include Blackbird, Prairie Schooner, Sycamore Review, Mid-American Review, Puerto del Sol, and Public Radio KUOW’s All Things Considered, among others.