The Day After the Last Day Ever

When the snow was falling, when the scent
of gin was rich on our tongues, we knew

where to find her. By candlelight, by a string
of warm white bulbs, we can find the form

of her slender frame. Her sharpened features,
our favorite parts of her altered structure.

The details have cut us open.
We are refusing treatment.
This is how we like to live now.

The sounds of the marching apocalypse have subsided. We are left

with a quiet hum,

a buzz crawling through our tired bones.
We need that warm bed and warm body

to calm us down, but she is flying now.
I wish I could fix her for ever and a day.

No radiation.
No second families.
No potential flight risks.

One good jolt, a dipped wing or blown
engine, and she could ignite the sky.

Bring about the end of days, but this is how we like to live now.

Terrified but happy. We want our arms
wrapped around that atom bomb, to keep

her from exploding. To keep the core
uncompromised.

She doesn't need me to defend her,
but says she likes it when I try.

End Times

Take back your apocalypse,
we have no need for your prophecies.

We have found girls with sharp bones and cities
who don't know our faces, but welcome us all
the same. The wind has been kind
to our hairstyles, and the trains wait for us.

Take back your apocalypse,
we have no use for your end times.

A younger us, an ignorant us, longed for a
change; a violent shock, a blackened sky.
We have found new homes, have practiced
strange rituals of our own.

Take back your apocalypse,
we have no patience for your fear.

There was a time when we wished to join
the fray. (We were going to be firefighters
when the floods rolled back.) The time
has passed, like your relevance.

Take back your apocalypse,
we have no room for your words.

We have no room for your scrolls.
We have no room for I'm Sorry.
We have no room for stockpiles.
We have no room for the end.