Molly Fisk: In Other News

I am not walking along a shore,

hands in pockets and buttoned

up to the neck against this bright

November, thinking of everything 

everyone I love has taught me: 

how not to change lanes into 

another car’s blind spot and linger, 

the best way to conjure fire — 

gradation of twigs, faster- and slower-

burning sorts of wood and it really 

does have to be dry: smoldering 

keeps no one warm. I can easily find 

the edges now between anger, rage, 

and disappointment by what’s running 

underneath and stop before I lash out. 

I don’t hurt myself or anyone else 

on purpose. Cast iron gets wiped 

with kosher salt and paper towels 

so it will last a few more generations. 

To swim across cold lakes, you walk in 

up to your waist — no point getting out 

if your suit’s already wet. I’m childless,

I have no one to teach this to, 

it’s up to you. Use half a potato to twist 

the broken light bulb from its socket. 

If your gas pedal jams while accelerating, 

the hand brake won’t last: turn off the engine. 

Add a little pasta water to the sauce.

Don’t worry about dilution,

it will coat the noodles perfectly. 

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Copyright 2022 Molly Fisk. First published in One Art.

Molly Fisk is a poet, prose writer and radio commentator who lives in Northern California.