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.

Knocked-Down Homes, Burned-Out Hearts

The season brings knocked-down homes, replaced
with burned-out hearts we can burrow into. Make a nest
for ourselves and sleep for months. The accommodations
would be a fine place to curl up into. Won't you host us?

We don't ask for much, just a place to keep us warm.
Maybe a cocktail before bed. Simple creatures demand
simple lives; we are no different. We demand a room
for rent. Somewhere to get the mind right, the body clean,

the needs serviced. Though they may be simple, our needs
are many. Care for us, beautiful girls and beautiful boys,
and we will buy you a wedding, or a rent-to-own bed.
We can treat you all like saints or burdens. Friends

or paper dolls. We can tie you down to four stanzas,
locked to sixteen lines, so you can't bother us ever again.
And maybe we'll take you out every so often, just to say
hello. To say: we used to live there, but that was forever ago.

On Reflection

There was a time when you
were enough. You were built

to love and you owned me.
When the honey dried,

when the season

changed, there was a time
when the idea of you was enough.

Something to get me through
the day, like a kind word

from a stranger; a moment

of accidental contact. A hand.
A stray hair. The small comforts

could only replace so much.
I wasn't made to love you,

but my wires got crossed.

[Broken hearts don't exist, for the organ...]

Broken hearts don't exist, for the organ
cannot be snapped. It's a pulling kind, a motion
that wears out wrists and jaws. The rip

is the new break. A tear mark, like a dark
spot in an open chest cavity. Broken hearts
don't exist, as much as we'd like them to.

We've never been ones for stitchwork,
the slit is too small to work with. Our fangs
would do the job just fine,

but we've been warned. Eating our own
stupid hearts went fine until
we filled up. Floating and drunk

off wine from our living vessels.