It is said there are over one hundred billion quiet black holes
in our galaxy, but I can see past the smudge where
water and ash meet in the bowl before the priest
thumbs a cross on my forehead and I wonder if nebulas ever
stretch their light, that is to say send out photons to the four
directions of our earthly compass, but lately my three plus
one dimensional mindset’s been reset. Forgive me.
I didn’t see what lay curled in front of me, I was busy
reading and doing things easily forgotten. Absolve me,
even now I’ve forgotten the weight of ash. It is said
that for these forty days we’re invited to look in-
ward, to the depths of our hearts and also out-
ward to our neighboring stars, those to whom we nod
and pay little heed. Forgive me. Maybe now we can rub
the ash from our skin, scrub what we’ve neglected from our
windows toward a clearer view. I’m sure there are dimensions
within me, waiting to be uncurled, tendrils, little branches
seeking light, while at the same time blessing dust.
–
Ronda Piszk Broatch, poet and photographer, is the author of Lake of Fallen Constellations (MoonPath Press, 2015). Ronda was a finalist for the Four Way Books Prize, and her poems have been nominated several times for the Pushcart Prize. Her journal publications include Blackbird, Prairie Schooner, Sycamore Review, Mid-American Review, Puerto del Sol, and Public Radio KUOW’s All Things Considered, among others.