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.
This poem can be found in A. Molotkov’s book Synonyms for Silence
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To learn more about A. Molotkov, visit his page on the Acre Books website by clicking here.
Danielle read from Karen Volkman’s essay Mutable Boundaries: on Prose Poetry. Click here to read it.
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