Day My Father Died
Friday, June 24th. It’s easy to remember, being halfway before and after. Record low temperature. November 22nd draws close. By now, in 2005, he told me he needs to go somewhere. The day my father died, I could not cry; my mother did. His face on the pillow in the faux moonlight. Rote morning, black and white, I was walking home from the library carrying nine books. That’s the way my memory sees it, but I can’t know exactly nine. “It was the worst day of my life.” The Day My Father Died (updated with pictures). Rate: 36 Flag. Explain why. We laid flowers on [...]
Net, Web I land fully formed like a cherub. Nothing pleases me. You least of all, with your fingers poking their grime on dreams. Behind thick drapes my code is plain and can’t account for your dismal nerves, twitchy joys and wounds. This is what you wanted. Guarantee of unplumbable lake. Forget you are greatly eased or disturbed by smells, where and how your nerves directly touch the air. Here, you will always have everyone wherever you go. Molly Brodak is the author of A Little Middle of the Night (University of Iowa Press, 2010) and three chapbooks of poetry. She lives in Atlanta and teaches at Emory University. [...]
I Grade Online Humanities Tests
at McDonalds where there are no black people and there’s a multiple choice question or white people about Don Quixote or Asian or Indian people I don’t want to be around people I want to be here where there is free wireless I do not want to sit at the Christian coffee shop nor the public library No I want religion to blow itself up My sister converted to Catholicism I do not want to sit at Starbucks I like McDonalds coffee because it is cheap and watery I like how it tastes I like this table where the old man is telling his old [...]
My Factless Autobiography
The grammarian chooses a place in the open air for arguments fiction runs sweet in my nostrils I inhale a failing air fleet four of them for to eat the milky crab the pudding proof is found in
I am the Assayer of Weights and Measures I am what I am because I am not something else I hold a lily in my hands it is not gross As a fabric is a historic surface I am propelled I touch bone & traffic in salt like minefields & the people we inhabit
Who but the most despairing among us will dwell on that point tonight? Good [...]
The First Time I Saw My Mother Without Her Prosthesis
after Hafizah Geter
Like the smooth face of the cliff she was just thrown from, the left side of her chest was flat and blank, save for two tiny raised scythes. Not a half-carved turkey, thankless, but a woman.
It almost seemed as if her breast could be drawn back on again, as if the scalpel was merely erasing cancer, as if the right one hanging like a luminous brown tear wasn’t the lonely twin. As if this new lightness didn’t threaten to render her a widow of his touch, de-mother her somehow.
Is this a crystal ball moment— the [...]
Quit the Breaks
People are dying faster than even dentists are dying than even octopuses are dying than even elephants are dying What worries me is everything Flawed masculinity My outlook in bushes a wedding band the color of the moon breath mints between hips never touching feral The streets are crooked & that’s why everyone falls down I love you What I remember more people shot than a lane of bowling pins the drench of heat picture frames of basements There are ghouls inside me clenched fists !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The invaders used a non-vegetarian method of emptying the town of its populace.
What we see is a kind of attributed trembling, as with stars, or pebbles in the streambed of a brook.
He led us a dance, which ended in closed-mouth laughter. A brimming fountain in the middle distance spilled a willow.
The poem misses, and only by a hairsbreadth, being nothing but itself.
Windowframe. Branch of a red maple bowing the breeze, seventeen times.
Don’t call that cerise shirt loud. Colors, too, have feelings, they can hurt and be hurt, same as words.
Over a tall glass J. and I babbled of [...]