KARAN

I’m a fan of these poems, Molly. Like what the fuck! Really. I was knocked out by these poems. I want to begin with the first poem here: “The Girl With No Hands.” You introduce a character who possesses invisible hands, used only for her own needs, not visible or accessible to others. This invisibility immediately becomes a metaphor for the unseen aspects of individuals, especially in terms of emotional labor and personal boundaries. Then you subvert that idea, rebel against it: “No really, she can sew and play the piano — just not for you.” Ah, I love that voice. But before speaking about voice, let’s speak about the fantastical elements of these poems — the invisible hands, living in the sky, turning into fish. Escapism through fantasy is of course most stark in “The Girl Who Can’t Stop Daydreaming,” where daydreaming serves not only as a literal and figurative escape from the mundanities of everyday life but as a profound engagement with an alternative reality that both enriches and endangers the daydreamer. “She’s thinking about how being inside the edifice feels like wading through the belly of a whale.” I realize I’m caught in a web of my own thoughts and am unable to form a question. I welcome you to speak about anything I’ve touched on.

MOLLY

Karan, I love your enthusiasm, thank you! I had so much fun writing this series . . . I remember being on a beach somewhere penning ‘The Girl With No Hands’ and laughing to myself because it was so absurd to read. I wasn’t trying to write a poem in that moment, I was trying to be myself. But anyway, yes I think you’ve touched upon my favorite aspect of writing poetry: the absolute and unbounded nature of being free. And that means being both, free “to”: express, fly, dream, and free “from”: expectations, rules, judgment. I think fashioning a space like that is so important, it’s the birthplace of creativity: a zone where your first and foremost question isn’t, is this poem any good? but instead asks, can I do what I want to do/can I say what I want to say? We have to manufacture these spaces because they don’t actually exist. I liked what you said about the double-edged nature that being lost in a daydream can evoke. In a way, “The Girl Who Can’t Stop Daydreaming” is an objective commentary on itself: receding and running away into one’s own world is both wonderful, but also heedless. As it relates to the poem, I think that’s part of what makes freedom and daydreaming so intoxicating as concepts: they provide escapes that ultimately swallow the protagonist whole. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? I’m not actually sure. . .

KARAN

The question of how we write obsessions appeals greatly to me. Lydia Davis, David Foster Wallace, Samuel Beckett, Thomas Bernhard come to mind. In poetry, it’s hard to think of poets who focus so much on it (Anne Carson, perhaps?). I’m thinking of “The Girl Who Loves to Clean” where you so poignantly represent “the girl” having control over the environment as a coping mechanism for chaos experienced in childhood. This control is both a refuge and a prison, illustrating how coping strategies for past trauma can shape and sometimes constrict one's life. I’m very interested in the form used to explore this here. Do you think it helps that this belongs to a series of prose poems? Prose poetry is my most favorite form to both read and write. Would you speak about your fascination for the form? What is it that the form of the prose poem allows you that lineated poetry won’t? Are these short-shorts wearing the guise of poetry?

MOLLY

Before writing this series, I was not a prose-poetry writer at all. But I did learn one thing: writing in the third person (as opposed to first person) makes it easier to talk about difficult concepts. It is so painfully direct (and brave) to make “I” statements, especially in a poem. If I had to re-write this series in the first person, I’m sure the poems wouldn’t be as unafraid to admit certain things or to broach certain topics. It can hurt to look into a mirror head on. So I think alter egos are a great avenue for objective study at arm’s length . . . it has made the process of introspection a lot less overbearing and intense. When I started writing in the third person, I slowly found the story-telling aspect was also easier to pick up. It was fun to get lost in the tiny details that gave color to each alter ego. The way prose poetry fills the page and gives way to world-building and character-building just made sense for these poems. And Karan, you can call them short shorts or flash fiction or prose poetry, the line is thin in my opinion . . . I don’t like to get too caught up in nomenclature, it’s all poetry to me!

KARAN

Your surrealism follows a logic that I find really funny. “The girl who cries every day was born at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean in a soupy town where it is customary to weep several times a day.” I associate this with Bob Hicok’s poetry. “Once [the girl who loves to clean] told me her wet dream was for a man to roll up his sleeves, and actually hand wash the dirty dishes.” That’s hilarious. You set up an expectation and then subvert it. Unlike traditional surrealism where reality is distorted in a dream-like way, your flavor of surrealism seems to hint toward an extension of reality, a kind of “normal” that has been slightly altered. Does this make sense to you? Is the “surreal” a preoccupation for you? 

MOLLY

I have never thought about it like that, but yes. I suppose I am preoccupied by the surreal . . . but maybe the truth is, reality is surreal. It’s one of the most exciting parts of experiencing the world: noticing things that are outlandish and seemingly not real (very similar to a dream). I think that’s how you understand hypocrisy and oxymoron and subversion and nuance and hatred and love, too. I think what I’m trying to say is: the world is weird and strange and it makes no sense. So many things about the natural way of our lives are simply bizarre. We would be so remiss not to notice and pay homage to this dynamic, especially in art. 

KARAN

These poems are also existential in the sense that they’re dealing (quite spectacularly) with one’s anxieties about their identity, especially of one who is marginalized in multiple ways. In “The Girl Who Turned Into a Fish,” the speaker hears her magical laugh and sees her “swim far away,” entirely abandoning her previous existence for a radically different life. Something that bothers me about the poetry landscape today is the one-dimensionality people lend themselves when it comes to their identity. If you’re an alcoholic, you’re only an alcoholic, if you’re an immigrant, you’re just that — the industry doesn’t allow marginalized people to exist beyond their marginalizations. Our identities are fluid and we all know we contain multitudes, then why should our poetry not reflect that? Why can’t “The Girl Who Lived in Beijing,” the girl who “learned to love ancient Chinese poetry” still long “for things such as different worlds and currencies.” It’s a perfect diaspora poem because it doesn’t turn away from complexity — it reimagines a life and asks What if? It assumes blame and also forgives. Writing (especially poetry), for many, is a way to unveil truths about themselves. Do you think of your practice in these terms? 

MOLLY

Yes, definitely. I think one of my favorite things about poetry is there is no good, there is no bad, there are no answers, really. You are forced to sit with ambiguity and with a spectrum of possibilities. There are no evil characters, there are no benevolent ones, either. This definitely applies to the alter egos . . . maybe some readers feel bad for these characters, and others might want to hold certain characters accountable. I don’t know about you, I have soft spots for some of these alter egos, but ultimately, I know they may not be role models (in the traditional sense). For example, ‘The Girl With No Hands’ is self-assured and blunt. But she doesn’t know how to be vulnerable and has a hard time with allowing herself to be perceived. ‘The Girl Who Loves to Clean’ is capable and meticulous, but she doesn’t know how to let go of her fears. ‘The Girl Who Turned Into a Fish’ is independent and free, but only by escaping the world she comes from . . . We are all complicated like that! I love how poetry forces us to unlearn certain stereotypes and misconceptions we have about certain “types” of people. We should always be open to the possibility that someone may surprise us.

KARAN

I love the movement of “The Girl Who Lives in the Sky” — it begins such that I’m deceived to think that there’s a longing for solitude, the physical elevation an extended metaphor for emotional and psychological distance from societal norms and expectations. But then the speaker asks a poignant question: “Why is it easier to simply avoid the ground? Maybe because down here, they can't help but hunt her with questions she can’t answer.” And the personal poem transforms into an anti-capitalist, anti-patriarchy, anti-consumerist poem. Though it is most clear in this poem, I see this movement from personal to political, individual to social, in each of these poems. I’m thinking of “99 Cent Dreams,” which is such a sharp commentary on capitalist-consumerist America. What are your thoughts on political poems? Are all poems political? Is it possible to write a poem that is removed from its socio-political context?

MOLLY

Wow thank you for such a beautiful analysis of these poems. I had never thought of them like that. . .but I suspect you are correct. I think all poems are personal, and I think the personal is political! In a special way, a poem is able to assert one’s identity . . . and that identity is made up of one’s internal ideas about the self, overlaid with society’s understanding and perception (rightly or wrongly). These different aspects of identity are what entangle the two, I think. As it pertains to these poems specifically, each work tries to assert its own ideas onto a world that exists in direct opposition. In my opinion, when that happens, you can’t help but be political. 

KARAN

I’m quite intrigued by the distance between the speaker and the various girls here. One would think that maybe the speaker is the girl, or an imagined self of the girl. But so often there are interjections, an intentional separation of the two, especially at the end of the poems: “When I reached over to hug her, I slipped right off her tear-slicked shoulders and into a lazy river.” or “last week I even stood on the corner of Hudson street staring at the moon and there she was: floating away like a free helium balloon.” or “I haven’t been able to reach her ever since.” You mention in your bio that you like to write about the women in your life. Of course these are too fantastical to be “real girls” but these are not meant to be literal and yet I see women who feel this way all around me. Talk to me about this separation between the speaker and the girl-characters.

MOLLY

Here is a tricky question! I’d say the speaker and subjects are one and the same. I don’t think that’s such a radical idea . . . maybe the poem is an act of observation with a degree of separation (and some embellishment). Maybe the separation is time, or the product of self-reflection . . . not sure.

KARAN

I really love “Studies in Yellow” — how different it is in tone and style from the poems in the Girl series. All three parts are so incredibly rich with imagery. I never want to take “a bath filled with fire.” Would you speak about what prompted you to write this one? And your writing process in general? Do you have a writing routine? Where do your poems come from? 

MOLLY

Thank you! I am a color maximalist so naturally I wanted to write a color series. (Not as straightforward as it sounds, I’m kind of stuck on yellow right now . . . hoping to expand). With yellow in particular, I feel such a happiness and warmth and hope and richness. I like seeing yellow pop up in situations that either juxtapose or enhance these feelings. I think this series of poems has something to do with longing . . . 

As for my writing process, I really don’t have one. I’m really not sure where poems come from. But I will say, I’m always surprised when I write a poem. I like to think that the act of writing comes for me at the very end of a long (sometimes subconscious, sometimes very intentional) marination process. Sometimes I’ll realize I’ve been mulling something over in my brain for 2-3 years before I feel brave enough to say anything about it. I consider pen hitting paper to be the last 5% of the work. Most of my “writing process” is just marinating. Then one day I’ll see something or notice something on the street and it’ll trigger a poem . . . I’ll start to hear the words and it will all come out in one piece. (That’s how I write most poems, not all). That’s why I don’t like to rush poetry-writing and also why I don’t consider a finished poem to be a “product”. Rather, a poem is evidence you’ve been seriously obsessed or haunted or intrigued by something for a while . . . A poem is a type of mirror. Seeing yourself on paper is the reward itself: and nothing beyond that, not the accolades or recognition or even publication.