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 [...]
Oh, look, it's a poem from The Poetry Section editor Mark Bibbins, and it's a little saucy.
If not Princess, then Warden
Things start off well: I’m the warden and no one’s writing on the walls in shit. I encourage all inmates to grow a mustache like mine, a bit of sculpted punctuation curling beneath the nose, directing the reader of the face downward to the lips. With them, and to the fellow in the mirror, I say, “my sweat unbreakable you,” helplessly using the word “sweat” instead of “sweet,” the way a high-school girlfriend did once in a letter, writing “Sweatheart, are we still going to the jamboree?” We were not going to the jamboree, anymore, Sally Garrett. This morning, out by the smokestacks before school, [...]
There, reading against the traffic, a car crash between chapters.
Alphabet via street signs. C is for Con Ed.
Kids music meant an actual kid, singing to herself
past all the silent billboards.
Then those days—when you were starting out, as they say—you were sulfur
frozen at Odeon
when strapped to the masthead, every remark, aside, sharpened.
The table by the mirror reserved for all the baby lionesses.
And now. You are living the app. A pop-up. La Vida App!
Too many words, not enough ears.
The rape joke is that you were 19 years old.
The rape joke is that he was your boyfriend.
The rape joke it wore a goatee. A goatee.
Imagine the rape joke looking in the mirror, perfectly reflecting back itself, and grooming itself to look more like a rape joke. “Ahhhh,” it thinks. “Yes. A goatee.”
The rape joke is that he was seven years older. The rape joke is that you had known him for years, since you were too young to be interesting to him. You liked that use of the word interesting, as if you were a piece of knowledge that someone could [...]