Four Poems by Molly Brodak (1980-2020)

These poems we have selected by the talented Molly Brodak offer a glimpse into her gift and love of poetry. As we are honor her life and legacy, her creative and professional work, we extend these poems out to our readers.

- Lauren Conte

How to Not Be a Perfectionist

People are vivid
and small
and don’t live
very long—

The Crowd

Think of it
like a block of ice
or a beetle upended—

the certainty
of your interface,
irreducibly
unlasting.

The crowd clatters past
your screen.

Love isn’t
the key.
A web
isn’t a home.

Your thin door, locked—
any boundary
defines creaturehood.
The stars,
pink and gold and quavering,
                        outmoded,
on the other side, too.

The crowd points into the canyon.
A vacancy that simply exists.
When the knock hits, it hits
twice. There is no one there,
just sound.

In the Morning, Before Anything Bad Happens

The sky is open
all the way.

Workers upright on the line
like spokes.

I know there is a river somewhere,
lit, fragrant, golden mist, all that,

whose irrepressible birds
can’t believe their luck this morning
and every morning.

I let them riot
in my mind a few minutes more
before the news comes.

Mild Peril

I might find a blueblack sky when I'm ready
to feel all the moments, not just the sleazy important ones.

To uncoil the wild little everything
inside this now, which I am crouching to fit into.
Three forty seven a.m. in the dooryard.

Providence. Resolve. Alcohol.
I am afraid of my dreams.
Maybe a mourning dove wheezes out of a hedge,
lungs throbbed by its own wings

(they build
bad nests

eggs often

slip out)

Stupid and faithful. I left fondness up to you.
And now, we'll burn that bridge when we come to it.

I asked what is going to happen and he said it's happening. 

- Originally Published: Tyrant Books and Superstition Review -