Jarrett Moseley
Inspired by Molly Brodak’s poem “Molly Brodak”
What if telling a story
was an exercise in forgiveness? A boy
slips a rotting peach into his pocket
and looks off the edge of a cliff. Here
in the airport, waiting
for my flight with shaking knees,
how much of his willingness to jump
is my willingness to sit still—
to bear the hornet’s nest
of everyday life turning
in my throat like a giant, wet eye? You can
show me horses on fire. The ocean
is every ship it never sank.
Can I love sanding off
the edge of a dresser
as much as I love touching you? This
lens of likeness, seeing
your face in my face reflected
in a puddle, is a tree that branches
back toward itself. This
is moving forward—an open clam
clasped in a closed palm: every time
I try to show it to someone
it closes back up.
