Battlefield

By A. Molotkov

A boy dies, a girl bleeds.
A stranger brings a head on a plate.
You forget your keys.
Every time, love turns to dust in your hands.
Reason hangs loose on a thread of logic.
Harmony calls, so close you can feel
its sharp edge in yourself.
Locked in us, years melt. Eyes
close every time they open.

FavoriteLoadingSave This Story
A. Molotkov

A. Molotkov / About Author

Born in Russia, A. Molotkov moved to the US in 1990 and switched to writing in English in 1993. His poetry collection, The Catalog of Broken Things, is just out from Airlie Press. Published by Kenyon, Iowa, Cincinnati, Massachusetts, Atlanta, Bennington, Tampa, Raleigh, New Orleans and Cider Press Reviews, Pif, Volt, Ruminate, 2 River, Sequestrum and many more, Molotkov is winner of various fiction and poetry contests and a 2015 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.

> More posts by A. Molotkov