Ronda Broatch is the author of Shedding Our Skins, (Finishing Line Press, 2008), and Some Other Eden, (2005). Her manuscript, Rib of New Fruit, was a 2010 finalist for the May Swenson Poetry Award. Nominated several times for the Pushcart, Ronda is the recipient of a 2007 Artist Trust GAP Grant, and is currently an assistant editor for Crab Creek Review.
Call yourself crazy, but these swallows in the eaves speak of arriving, of settling in like flames. It is midnight when you flee with your daughter into the garden, blessing a nursing bra, holey pair of panties. How you stare, amazed as people grow from the ground, shimmering in tuxedos to praise the raging body of your home, gaping windows keeping nothing sacred. Morning you return, your house a post- holocaust sanctuary, plastic curtain grafted to the altar of your vanity. You see in the sodden marriage of your photos a glue no prying will undo: wife to husband, the mouth of your child an O against the ear of a relative whose name escapes you. All next year you dream of flight, of burning and birth. You find a looseness in this. You sleep longer, wandering often amongst the ashes where you haunt the ghosts of your belongings: knitting needle stuck to the baby's doll, the hearts of sweaters eaten by mice. You admire charred trees for their audacity to reach beyond earth, think of planting beans, of attaining heaven by climbing. You pine for simpler things, whole days outside. Blood, as a method of expression, not a map of your years. In the soil you find another piece of glass and your eyes burn – pollen, or the low morning sun – you've no time to question it now, what with these seeds to tamp down, one more year rushing by like a house on fire.