Ronda Broatch

Housewife Shifts Her ’64 Ford Galaxie
into Hyperdrive

                            She blazes home
                round the corner of
dawn and darkness, smoking
                tires blown to shreds
                                       in shapes of quasars
                            and super novas.
         Moon shells dance
a comet trail on her dash.
                She’s got a stash of
                                       seeds in a sack
                            under the seat.
         She doesn’t see
when she is seen, she writes
                while driving, her children
                                        in constant dis-
                            composure. She knows
          exposure to gas clouds
and house dust
                may spawn planets.
                                       When the moon cracks
                            she scatters ashes
           over the garden
little rings around the Cosmos
                a prayer for bright flowers
                                        a shock of stars.

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