If I Drink the Violets,

by Ronda Piszk Broatch

         you must hold the glass,
in case I become a fever of absence.
In my old version of creation,

our cosmos was birthed by another cosmos.
Which makes me fortunate, otherwise Johnny Rotten
would never have let me on his bus,

and I’d still be looking at my watch hours later
in tall fall grass, waiting for you to come.
The wheat aches for me

to run through it, tossing off jacket, pants, tee,
the bikini that slipped to show a nipple.
As for scissors, I’m never without them.

Round is the lip of glass, the pocked orange,
beautiful blue Neptune.
Show me a crazy overnight,

like the one where I lost at poker, and you
showed me your glittering icebergs.
The cosmos is still tumbling

its spent fireworks, blowing confetti
under our door. Even though you showed up so late,
I forgive you

your muddy Doc Martens,
looking at me
with your violets like that.

Ronda Piszk Broatch is the author of Lake of Fallen Constellations, (MoonPath Press). She is the recipient of an Artist Trust GAP Grant. Ronda’s journal publications include Fugue, Blackbird, Sycamore Review, Missouri Review, Palette Poetry, and Public Radio KUOW’s All Things Considered.