by Ronda Broatch
More than bread and wine, or at least arising
in time for church, we need a little midnight
sex, the chance to zenith as the blood
moon traverses the ether between equinox
and Easter. Everything sanguine. Everything
illumined to unmask our every crater, valley, plateau.
Once, barefoot, I read some sacred writ
in a sanctuary lit in votives, amidst basins of water,
spent towels and the scent of lilies—
(my feet newly washed)—and instead of wisdom
I uncovered an ache so raw it wept
milk and honey. It was then I understood
that even a stellar black hole will emit
its own magnetic and devouring love.
RONDA BROATCH, poet and photographer, is the author of Lake of Fallen Constellations, (MoonPath Press, 2015), Shedding Our Skins, (Finishing Line Press 2008), and Some Other Eden, (Finishing Line Press, 2005). rondabroatch.com
Featured Image: “Blood Moon” by Julie Falk
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