You rip off the bandage exposing the wound, the gap between birth and its correction. Let’s be the best we can be, even if saying so is naive and being so costs. Strange blood flows when you let it flow. We make use of it. Things said in lost hours turn into moments recalled by others. Gifts explode, small sparks turn to forest fire. Your wound will not heal. Let’s surrender lightly to this mystery.
Each minute travels through our veins. Time lingers so we may try to understand sun’s song, the angle of geese, a past insisting on presence. We remember so little; even less deserves remembering. Night brings us to focus; your darkness fills my mouth. Every morning, a surprise: lost things are found faster than the rest. Not every moment speaks our language. Do we deserve a better ending, even if we
are not better?
Born in Russia, a. molotkov moved to the US in 1990 and switched to writing in English in 1993. His poetry collections are The Catalog of Broken Things, Application of Shadows and Synonyms for Silence. Published by Kenyon, Iowa, Antioch, Massachusetts, Atlanta, Bennington and Tampa Reviews, Pif, Volt, 2 River View and many more, Molotkov has received various fiction and poetry awards and an Oregon Literary Fellowship. His translation of a Chekhov story was included by Knopf in their Everyman Series; his prose is represented by Laura Strachan at Strachan Lit. He co-edits The Inflectionist Review. Please visit him at AMolotkov.com.