Poetry by Catherine Zickgraf
At the fireplace flames, he bows at his hearth
to toss the secret toward cremation.
Its parchment is wrapped in tongues like scarves,
the varnished edges are breathless and melting.
He stretches to rake up the ashes.
Descending his cellar stairs where
the dryer sits humming and whorling,
he hammers to shatter the cemented floor,
to bury there the train wreck of
And the dust flies up as prayer.
This secret once passed along the sidewalks
got caught and brought back for destruction.
Yet benevolent words are eternal like stars.
They can’t be caught—so he leaves his thoughts
on pages, his own creation.
About the Poet
Catherine Zickgraf’s main jobs are to hang out with her family and write poetry. Her work has appeared in the Journal of the American Medical Association, Pank, Victorian Violet
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