A photon leaves Geneva, and arrives at one
of two conclusions in two separate universes.
In this one, your shorts are made of shouts and
my lingerie is dark enough to cover the moon.
To make us listen God scrapes her fingernails
against the dark matter chalk board, blows on
a blade of grass. If freedom was a door, its bell
made of wax, our hands must be forged in ice.
If the door is holy, we slip an envelope beneath
for God to read. In this dimension your miracle
is a devil in drag, salvation like a French kiss
in a galaxy of rhinestone, of universal peace.
The photon loves the partially-silvered mirror.
God of foolish things, we say, push the button.
Header photograph © Ricky Garni.
Poet and photographer, Ronda Piszk Broatch is the author of Lake of Fallen Constellations, (MoonPath Press, 2015). Ronda is the recipient of an Artist Trust GAP Grant, and her poems have been nominated for the Pushcart prize. Her journal publications include Blackbird, Diagram, Sycamore Review, Missouri Review, Palette Poetry, and Public Radio KUOW’s All Things Considered, among others.