Open the atom.
in there is the good guy.
See, they fight.
In white cowboy hats.
film rips through its linen.
comes for us.
of cakes tumble from us.
The projector, the whole projector
flaps like laughing, no one
turns it off. Wall-clung, you love
It’s noble. It’s some monkey’s
dream, this peace you’ve made,
remember her, dreaming you.
The chain trailing every purpose
is purposelessness. You will hit it
if you keep asking.
A copy of a book,
and troves of forgeries of silver coins
and a man and woman,
forgeries of godliness. Words for them,
forgeries. Comedy is one.
In one country how to say black was blood-is-dirty.
Also early sky, late sky, dusty, and shining-from-somewhere.
We’ve come from there; it is no longer a place.
Our morning flared like a mirror
and masses of waxwings mobbed a pear tree—
there just thin limbs laced canopies, dead silence
of the world-swamp before insects or birds. Silence
for centuries. Only odd mosses and weeping horsetails.
I might think to go back there, under ocean.
Couched on slime, to see the stars through a mile of sea.
Truth is just always off.
A home you must fit to.
And some homes have
a spot inside to build a fire.
My favorite souvenir is a goat's horn that came to me after my great grandma died. Years later I found a small piece of paper folded up inside of it with her name on it, written in her soft cursive, just her name: Zoretta.
Molly Brodak is the author of A Little Middle of the Night (University of Iowa Press, 2010) and three chapbooks of poetry. She lives in Atlanta.