The Driftwood #28: Poetry Corner

Apocalyptic Lessons
from Molly Brodak

If a thing is alive it is weak.
If a thing is weeping, may it silence.

The mercy she gave to the dog came back to bite,
locked away in a shed. Dead girl walking.

Inches turn to miles underneath the wax sun.
Thunderbirds sing out in white hot flashes.

Dive and eat reddened flesh of a weasel.
Dive and the burning shock of ice becomes home.

In the glass, she is painted gold and singing.
Spinning like all hell, never meeting a gaze.

Suffocated in thin gold leaf to cover

the ugly bits. To cover the eyes.

Dead girl walking. Dead girl weeping.
May she silence.