a love like soda

Les Petits Poissons , The Little Fish - Janet Fish , 1984.

American , b. 1938 -

by Molly Brodak

The sky is open all the way.

Workers upright on the line like spokes.

I know there is a river somewhere, lit, fragrant, golden mist, all that,

whose irrepressible birds can’t believe their luck this morning and every morning.

Untitled - Line Holtegaard

Danish , b, 1980 -

Stadtbad Neukölln - Eline Brontsema, 2026.

Dutch, b. 1988 -

Lakeside Cabin - Martijn Hesseling , 2023.

Dutch , b. 1971 -

Newspaper with industrial lacquer on plexiglass , 133 x 173 cm.

Cherries - Kaj Bernstone

Swedish , b. 1946 -

the house settles back into itself,

wrapped up in silence, a robe

around its shoulders. Nothing

is roasting in the oven or cooling

on the countertops. No presents

are waiting to be wrapped, no cards

fill the mouth of the mailbox.

All is calm, all is bright, sunlight

glinting off snow. No eggnog, no yule

log, no letters to be licked

and stamped. No more butter

cookies, no more fudge, just miles

to go on the treadmill, another round

plate added to the weight machine.

All our good intentions pave the road.

We stride out into the new year,

resolute to become firm, to define

our muscles, to tighten our borders.

The thin tinsel of the new moon

hangs in the dark sky, a comma

dividing the sentence between

last year's troubles and this year's

hopes. The calendar ruffles her pages,

a deck of shiny cards, deals out

a fresh new hand.

It’s New Year’s.

It’s New Year’s & the stars are white-hot & all your favorite dishes

are flushed warm on the island: tteokguk for fortune, knife-cut noodles

for longevity, persimmon pudding & a tin can of sardines.

The nectarines are in season in our backyard & the pigeons

are painting their pale bodies with rain. The man in the powdered apron

still feeds them on the porch of  his square little store, the way you said

was too generous. Too much for such small bodies to be eclipsed

by hunger. We leave flowers by your pillow, the lakeside whirring

with cicadas. We chose a round pound cake from the supermarket

last week, the anniversary of  your funeral. I confuse my birthday

with the day you died. Are you listening? I am still making a list

of places for us all to visit: the static image of your youth,

the last lake in which you loved. There should have been

more distractions. There are still so many sardines

left in their cans, floating belly-up in brine. Seabirds still float

against the red bridge, arrogant, flashing their bellies

toward the sky. I think you would have liked to feed them.

I think you would have been generous,

despite.