Today's poem is by Ronda Piszk Broatch

Little Death Song for Grace
       

Spooky how the quantum camera captures ghosts
in the tangy non-light where photons dance,

imprinting in inverse language the beloved
unseen. Spiritually speaking, though apart, we

entangle even as our voyage transports us
to different camps, always in a constant

state of arrival, spinning in concert, lovers
on different wavelengths. Ash-wife, our paths

diverge. I manifest you electromagnetic
and inescapable. Sleep torn we trudge, light

deficient prisoners in leitmotif, our bone bags
gone threadbare, unstitched, ration sacks hiding

hard parsed crusts of weeks and months. We are soup-
stoned, untranslatable by any other means.

Tweet

Copyright © 2023 Ronda Piszk Broatch All rights reserved
from Chaos Theory for Beginners
MoonPath Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission