Anatoly Malotkov

by Anatoly Molotkov

I wrap my mother’s body in a small blanket. She is light in my arms. Sprawled by a fig tree, my father asks, Are thoughts made of our own flesh? I hesitate. Our flesh is a ship stripped of sails. We listen to the sound of the oars. A fig falls into my opening palm. Bodies are evolving myths. My mother is lighter and lighter each year.

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 2.

Anatoly MalotkovBorn in Russia, A. Molotkov moved to the US in 1990 and switched to writing in English in 1993. Molotkov is the winner of New Millennium Writings and Koeppel fiction contests, two poetry chapbook contests, and a 2015 Oregon Literary Fellowship. His full-length poetry collection, The Catalog of Broken Things, is forthcoming from Airlie Press.

See all items about Anatoly Molotkov

Visit Anatoly Molotkov’s contributors page.

Leave a Reply