Mollie O'Leary
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I remember the road danced when the car swerved, asphalt sparkling like wet teeth in the dark. We didn’t look at each other, sat still as stopped breath in the back seats. I remember ginger ale crowded the counter, unwieldy bouquet of sobriety he displayed for weeks while diluting the cans with rum. I remember the bruise pooled on our brother’s face. We smoothed his cheekbone with make-up, the powder too pale to match his skin, so he became a ghost. I remember the window on the front door as it framed our father, backlit by a yellow streetlamp. He became a portrait pressed in gold leaf, holding a stone above his head like an offering. Our father, a work of art, he was allowed to contain multitudes. We braced for shattering glass, but our mother opened the door to let him back inside, his mind already unmaking this memory as we watched, as all of us knelt to collect the night. |
Mollie O'Leary has an MFA in poetry from the University of Washington, Seattle. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in journals such as Frontier Poetry, Poetry Online, DIALOGIST, and So To Speak. She reads for GASHER Journal. Read more of her work at mollieoleary.com.