The first story you’ll hear is: oh you’ve arrived too late! Hurry, join…
The first poem doesn't ask to sit. For Molly Brodak it is the pines, the clouds and the wind in between. It doesn’t stick to you. It does not hold you down. Because the first poem that you fit through is also what you move through. But it is that brief fracture in solitary cell where the world seeps in and runs right through again. The Vast seeps into the Exact, meshes Dreams with Mathematics. In other words you live your horror and you live in the world. And that’s that.
Words tether Molly to the malty earth and in turn the loamy underneath makes her words smell of the edgeless horizon. Most of the time, she takes you too far and leaves you stranded. The images scuttle away in the end but while you’re there, the mind frolics and is soothed.
I saw the angels embarrassed of the swamp. Blushed at each other,
like animals, blushed at the weird trills, the rot on the wind.
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