the world ended in february; it is getting difficult to remember
a time before humanity, ephemeral in the end,
slipped into the gaps between evolution’s gnashing teeth;
i saw the first ghost outside my window
stumbling in the distance from the chapel garden,
walking about the streets with curling fingers,
reaching out to touch warm skin, and i,
behind thick locks and boarded windows,
dared not leave my house for days; in march i sat trembling
as i counted empty jars in my cenotaph pantry;
after eating cat food and the cat i
carried nothing on my back when i fled my home
in search of a safer haven; in april, i stood
on the tops of hollow buildings and looked down at the street
to see faces shining red, ravenous and without mercy in the ash,
i watched a man open up another’s ribcage
like the doors of a hostel, unsealed at the edges
as if just another canned good from a looted grocery store; in may
i caught glimpses of children catatonic in their skin,
orphaned by pestilence and rotting after
their first death and their second, i witnessed
my mother’s apostasy, saw her gnawing on the bones of the vicar
with a king james tattered at her feet; in june i saw my sister
huddled in the corner and clutching a revolver,
white-knuckled, one bullet,
staring down the barrel as wounds bled and hands shook,
and the seed of acedia—germinating in her chest
beside that vile malady—kept her finger twitching just beyond the trigger; i
lamented the absence of the swallowed sun, forgot what apples tasted like,
stopped telling the difference between samaritans and corpses and
observed that which was once called love turn into a hungry fire
as old and primal as leaning stones, carnal and hard and ugly
and spoiled like all else; in july
i noticed my hands had begun to shake every time i heard my name, and i
trudged through another fallen city, broken eyes watching me as i passed
with a shopping cart of tinned pears, the weight of all their hunger tied around my ankles,
marching towards the end beneath a black and starless sky
i felt it, coming closer as i ran,
and crawled, and prayed, and walked. and walked. and walked. and walked. and
in january,
(before i began to fear the human silhouette
and you started holding my hand to keep you sane,)
we drove nowhere on the highway at dusk,
headlights illuminating the obsidian road, moon trailing your truck,
a sacred ghost, omnipresent, neon signs blinking their greetings
for diners and motels and gas station stops, dissonant music laced with static
pouring out your dashboard radio, the two of us
in contented coexistence, wordless,
the world alive and well.
and in february,
in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, the terminus began,
the planet shook for a final time and brought to pass
that which is written—o death,
where is thy sting? o grave,
where is thy victory? the dead shall be raised
incorruptible, and us?
we shall be changed
