One hand for danger, one
for smoothing the tired brow. Crow

feet in my eyes, crow nests
in my apple tree, spider

webs for blossoms, their blind
shimmer. How did time turn

into responsibility? Or was it
the lack of time, the brevity

of each blood cell, each
busy century? My blood is

too old to sing – it can only
whisper. In each crow nest, a stolen

nightingale egg. The cracked
hymn of dying. I still

hold out a piece of bread in one




Born in Russia, A. Molotkov moved to the US in 1990 and switched to writing in English in 1993. His poetry collections are The Catalog of Broken Things (2016), Application of Shadows (Main Street Rag, September 2018) and Synonyms for Silence (2019). Published by Kenyon, Iowa, Massachusetts, Atlanta, Bennington and Tampa Reviews, Pif, Volt, 2 River View and many more, Molotkov is winner of various fiction and poetry contests and an Oregon Literary Fellowship. His translation of a Chekhov story was included by Knopf in their Everyman Series. He co-edits The Inflectionist Review. Please visit him at AMolotkov.com.




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