Echo
       

I pulled thunder from his voice
and put it in a jar, hoped
the glow of its lightning
could somehow lead my way.

Its glare blinded me.
Glass shattered,
painted red rivulets
across my hands.

I hid his thunder behind a curtain
of night, filled that slack-jawed space
between failed efforts
and snake-bitten goals,

that place between wall and rafter
where prayers get wedged
on their journey upward.
Loud rumbling kept me awake.

I buried it — dropped it
like a string of black pearls
clattering against the wood
of its tiny coffin.

Mud-crusted skeletons
sent their broken-tongued ghosts
to my dreams to complain
of noise.

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Copyright © 2021 Patty Dickson Pieczka All rights reserved
from The Bitter Oleander
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission