Poetry by Ed Ruzicka
I
I see moon’s fingerprint in rills
that spread across black water,
to nudge and lift up lily pads.
I know, I know, that you are brave
and like the rest of our family
never one to hug. Nevertheless
I must do something. Anything. Maybe
place two fingertips to my third eye
because I am old and have become
afraid of seeing into the future.
Hold my fingers there so I become calm again
and close to you as moonlight on dark water.
II
When we were wee, sister
whose name means light,
mom would instruct you
to sit down upon our couch.
Then she’d place me, swaddled, in your arms.
You cooed to me, softly sang
fragments of nursery rhymes
and ditties that you’d learned at school.
Tonight I want to give back.
Not that you need it. You are stronger,
so much stronger, than I ever was.
Yet I would like to lift you.
Hold you, sister formed of light,
the way black waters hold the moon.
Ed Ruzicka’s fifth full-length book of poetry, The Invention of Dreaming, published in early 2026. Ed’s poems have appeared in the Atlanta Review, Rattle, Canary, and many others, and been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He is president of the Poetry Society of Louisiana.
