This poem originally appeared in the 2018 issue of Portland Review. We are republishing it online in remembrance of Molly Brodak, a poet and memoirist, who passed away last month. 

I’m my mom
and my dad.

Two
blanks,

coat and hat on a rack.

Mom’s hands, endless
sea reach
without sound,

Dad’s downturn
luck, god-wrest
force of coin.

At night
the moon won’t

stay at all,
won’t rest with me, where I

in rough text,
old outlines

of refusals,
also do not rest.

The ax in the spine of a fir
is grown around.

A knock at the door
is no one,

just sound.

_____

Image attribution: “DSC02182” by hellothomas via Creative Commons