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A little middle of the night by Molly Brodak

By Molly Brodak

The language of Molly Brodak’s first full-length assortment, A Little center of the Night, is ever moving, brightly sonic, and disarming whereas exploring the margin among nature and artwork, darkness and wonder, goals and awakenings. As echoed in a single epigraph from Emerson, those poems catch “the particular and the significant” of awareness in extreme lyric verse with an angular and nearly clinical sensitivity. here's a speaker motive on discovery: “Oh complete global, we elect / another.”
      This award-winning assortment simmers with wit as Brodak confronts tragedy, youth losses, transcendent love, and the query of paintings itself. Tinged with a suffering—“I used to be the littlest wastebasket. / i used to be my very own church. other than— / scared, scared”—that rises above own sorrow, her fierce and painterly poems redefine nature and paintings and what exists among: “Lately, there's spangled colour in my house / and a chilly apple orchard to have a tendency in preference to consciousness.” As Reginald Shepherd acknowledged in regards to the poems in Brodak’s first assortment, the chapbook Instructions for a Painting, her international is “‘small adequate / to sing in all directions,’ and massive adequate to take us there.”

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While my real body slept in the car, crossing the skirts of the mountain. Held under little claws. Changing my mind. Green and pink light knitted across us; it was just a thought. Bouquet of overrated roses on my real lap. ( 42 ) “Ha, ha. ” — Hardy, “Channel Firing” Lake-like Paint the sumac chest-high, aching out of somewhere primitive. Use blue only in a wild spray of starlings to tangle the pocket of nothing above the highway. Below, in the panic-grass and sedges some dirty cat with the fur of its neck knifed up—the same beige.

41 ) Pale Yellow Throat 1790 An end of things and it’s all lit: the bird’s skeletal feet in a fortune of jewel green scrub. I fell asleep at the end of land because let it rot and I pushed my dream arms into this picture plane. While my real body slept in the car, crossing the skirts of the mountain. Held under little claws. Changing my mind. Green and pink light knitted across us; it was just a thought. Bouquet of overrated roses on my real lap. ( 42 ) “Ha, ha. ” — Hardy, “Channel Firing” Lake-like Paint the sumac chest-high, aching out of somewhere primitive.

What’s above our old errors, and above those coldest places? Out of the bogs of our wide glacial plain, an earth marked by retreat & enormous inland seas who capture and recapture, a lower air transferred our images: even without us. As breathing is forgettable. I felt a sound when you called—a yellow bruise clouded across my inner upper arm. In polar regions, yellow light carries farthest. As the signal itself replies to the sender, having sent. ( 32 ) Funny Old Dad thought he’d get shot. Dye pack, red red red.

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