You were the wrath of a rock with mouth opened.
With a face through which death has passed, you came back
with shoulders which changed the wind’s path.
I am all the sad women,
women who bring loneliness to bed.
Cold passes even the surface of the house;
Beneath the wallpaper it becomes jaundice . . .
wun wahine wit wun glass eye
studied da bottom
of wun wooden poi bowl
When I see a cardinal in February, I think of snow
even as I stand on a green lawn beneath palms
and plumeria, watering the grass. I think the bird
I did not find the lost oasis
of Zarzura, nor spears and swords
of Persian armies drowned
in sand, not even the wreck
of Count Almasy’s plane,
dear baby with your hands in the air
tears in your eyes and explosions in your ears
"The air hung cool but heavy at Kapālama in the early evening. The muted sound of a hundred and fifty voices lilted through the dense mist and over the waves to a hundred thousand radios. The campus sat, regally, on a mountainside, as a general surveying the common people on the plains below."
"We still do not understand most of it and we rely on your Uncle Benji to explain sometimes. He says there is nothing happening now that did not happen when he was there as a student. I cannot imagine what it feels like being so young and finding yourself in a place where you are suddenly black before anything else. Especially in a place where it is the worst thing you can be."
"It’s 9:57 at night and the highway, unpopulated, seems as though it will never end, but end it must—United Airlines is waiting for me. Two sleeping pills later it’s like this: I’m here and here is the city. Unlike home, there are bridges here, from Covent Garden to Waterloo, from St. Paul’s to Tate, from station to station, from she and I, between Anna and I—mind the gap."
"Plenty times before, Pastor Cooke had surfaced from deep sleep to find he was stuck inside himself. On those mornings it was normal to wake with heat and tightness in the chest, and like a shifting under the skin––just like organs rubbing, grinding, maybe. Sometimes he’d panic."
"Herb drives a 17-year-old white Chevy van. The vehicle he owned before this one was also an old white van, and he’d liked it—the first one—though a friend used to call it Herb’s Rape-Mobile. Herb actually got his first van in Ohio because of the Chevy Van song of the 1970s."
"It’s his common name, he suspects, that keeps him camouflaged. According to Wikipedia, “Chris Carter” could be a screenwriter, a synthesizer player, a honcho in the music biz, a politician in New Zealand or one of numerous sports figures—his favorite being the slugger who led the American League in strikeouts with 212, a heroic number of misses."
Events & Book Reviews
"The four meditative sections which make up A. Molotkov’s The Catalog of Broken Things surreptitiously converse among themselves across genres, geographies, and temporal spaces. Molotkov demonstrates dexterity in stretching the lyric and formal conventions of language . . ."