Three by


Molly Stern








beneath the juvenile bird’s feathers—liquefaction.

the windswept body lies parsed by surf


onrush of the ocean, a birth of movements in space

as the synapses decay, spread multiform


become as a flood of new beings, cellular clinging

salt-soaked and gulping at cold tides.


the clambering limbs are limed with it

this departure—or is it a greeting?—overwhelming


bonds snap, a gentle swaying of the carcass on the swell

the stink of its bloated godhand

the terminal fruit flowering over, into an anemious dawn.


the body is laid bare

every nerve flushed with the sinistrorse turning

of flesh to dust, dust to flesh


the raw commonality of it—

to feel the sharp pull of ether reaching down from another world


dazed by the star lights, knocked to our backs by it 

defenseless against the merciless plucking of a hidden colony


the eyes cloud over—no place to alleviate it

no relief rushing down from it

only the sleep movements of planets at night.








obnubilate me

in an instant, render me indistinct

cover me in a winding latebra

let me sink into obscurity, a dissipating mist


the breath is ombrogenous in an arid land

seasons of suffocation begin

the skies birth a body


the world is alive with it

muscose clouds thickly gathered


I am immobilized, crushed under cold clay

but not yet senseless to it


I watch the rise of a new body above the trees

chosen, encircled by the hand of him, the god


I am left below

the dripping of a rainswept land in my ears


eyes beclouded by night, that inblowing of darkness.





nutual, adj.: expressed merely by a gesture



having the tendency to become of rock—the sky, the water

my body, breathing


the touch of—

isolation of—

                           the body

rain-dampened and hot


to see the growth become a part of it

the breath a cosmic offshoot

of the body’s totality


searching for distance at a molecular level


the so-called sleep movements

                     only gestures


a folding of planets

bodies crowding through woods


to render obscure



refracted in a nutual greeting.









Molly Stern lives in Brooklyn, NY.  Her poetry has appeared in E·ratio, Witness Magazine, So to Speak and The Mays Anthology. 



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