[vc_row row_height_percent=”50″ override_padding=”yes” h_padding=”2″ top_padding=”3″ bottom_padding=”3″ back_image=”56863″ back_position=”center top” overlay_alpha=”0″ gutter_size=”3″ shift_y=”0″][vc_column column_width_percent=”100″ position_vertical=”bottom” style=”dark” overlay_alpha=”50″ gutter_size=”3″ medium_width=”0″ shift_x=”0″ shift_y=”0″ zoom_width=”0″ zoom_height=”0″ width=”1/1″][vc_custom_heading heading_semantic=”h1″ text_size=”fontsize-338686″ text_height=”fontheight-179065″ text_space=”fontspace-111509″ text_font=”font-762333″ text_weight=”700″ text_color=”color-xsdn” sub_reduced=”yes” subheading=”by Ronda Piszk Broatch”]Night, and the Coffers are Empty[/vc_custom_heading][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column width=”1/1″][vc_empty_space empty_h=”2″][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]—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.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column column_width_percent=”100″ align_horizontal=”align_center” overlay_alpha=”50″ gutter_size=”3″ medium_width=”0″ mobile_width=”0″ shift_x=”0″ shift_y=”0″ z_index=”0″ width=”1/1″][vc_empty_space][vc_separator sep_color=”color-184322″ el_width=”30%”][vc_empty_space][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column column_width_percent=”100″ align_horizontal=”align_right” overlay_alpha=”50″ gutter_size=”3″ medium_width=”0″ mobile_width=”0″ shift_x=”0″ shift_y=”0″ z_index=”0″ width=”1/3″][vc_single_image media=”58455″ media_width_percent=”100″][/vc_column][vc_column width=”1/3″][vc_column_text]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.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][vc_column width=”1/3″][/vc_column][/vc_row]