Lightening by A. Molotkov
I wrap my mother’s body in a small blanket. She is light in my arms. Sprawled by a fig tree, my father asks, Are thoughts made of our own flesh? I hesitate. Our flesh is a ship stripped of sails. We listen to the sound of the oars. A fig falls into my opening palm. Bodies are evolving myths. My mother is lighter and lighter each year.
To learn more about A. Molotkov, visit his page on the Acre Books website by clicking here.