Echo Organ

No grief forms on the hinge.

Standard
as a baby,

and a babyís a wash, a harebrained escape plot
from the two dying bodies who made it
into a new one,

and in a sun-warm carriage,
its stark delight

is dimmed by hatred, they see,
in the spring park,
the hatred for children
only whores feel.

The pines creak like phones
in the park, all day. Be glad

if you ever meet your ugliness.
Some canít. They stay

at the foot of a range
that only appears insufferable. Babies, old babies,
ugly music 

is all over us.

Often, a silence in the music

all the musicians
have agreed to.

Love affairs
go nowhere in particular,
& this is what they mean by nowhere.

All you need 
is a cello
and a piano.
All 
you need
is
a cello.



________________________________________

Molly Brodak is the author of A Little Middle of the Night (University of Iowa Press, 2010) and three chapbooks of poetry. Her poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Field, Fence, Kenyon Review Online, jubilat, Guernica, Crazyhorse, and elsewhere.