You’ve dreamt about it since you were a kid:
a secret, a funeral, a spreading cough, and then
it starts—the end. The whole, terrible end.
For years, you’ve kept one eye on the shadows
swilling above the door, waiting for the arrival
of the God of Doom. What to do now
that he’s here, sipping coffee in our kitchen?
We sneak glares from the sink, mutter apologies
when we bump in the hall. He’s an awful guest,
of course—tracks blood everywhere, cries
when we feed him, screams if we don’t.
So we keep the freezer stocked with dumplings, black fruit,
beans to last a month. We take turns hefting his bulk,
keep him placated with a soundtrack of pickaxes, songs
about death camps and microplastics, circular fretting,
it’s only a matter of time. When it storms, he yanks open
the windows; he polishes our worst parts; steals, constantly.
At night, he raps at the wall behind our heads, just
as he did for ten thousand nights before he showed up,
just as he’ll do for ten thousand nights after.
Meanwhile—well, you know. Meanwhile.
All our kin is dying at a distance.
The coast’s been burning for weeks. Filling the kettle,
you catch me humming, The dream that you dream
will come true, and we laugh, though nothing’s funny
but this: We knew the end was coming here. We knew it,
and like idiots—like perfect idiots—we stayed.
amandla
origamiaround
prguitarman
areudirty
germansingergirl
theartofmadeline
gummygunk
