Night, and the Coffers are Empty

—Mary Ruefle

When darkness seeps in I keep my wick trimmed,
my juices wrecked with fear. These are the days

I live in a house of cards with vodka
and lime. It’s Monday morning, I’m seconds

from sex, the Secretary General
of bourbon. I want to know what sets your

neon gasses alight. I want to take
each number off the clock and lose every

equation tethering time to zero.
When I play the song backwards I’m filled with

the thick perfume of gratitude. When I
celebrate, fog rolls from my mouth in shapes

of moths. This unbuttoned day’s a card short,
a neutron star burning itself alive.

Poet and photographer, Ronda Piszk Broatch is the author of Lake of Fallen Constellations, (MoonPath Press, 2015). An Artist Trust GAP Grant recipient and Pushcart nominee, Ronda’s journal publications include Blackbird, Prairie Schooner, Sycamore Review, Mid-American Review, Puerto del Sol, and Public Radio KUOW’s “All Things Considered,” among others.