POEM: "Alive at the End of the World"

The end of the world was mistaken

for just another midday massacre

in America. Brain matter and broken

glass, blurred boot prints in pools

of blood. We dialed the newly dead

but they wouldn’t answer. We texted,

begging them to call us back, but

the newly dead don’t know how to

read. In America, a gathering of people

is called target practice or a funeral,

depending on who lives long enough

to define the terms. But for now, we

are alive at the end of the world,

shell-shocked by headlines and alarm

clocks, burning through what little love

we have left. With time, the white boys

with guns will become wounds we won’t

quite remember enduring. “How did you

get that scar on your shoulder?” “Oh,

a boy I barely knew was sad once.”

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