How the World Will End

The earth will start thinking
about how the moon snores all night.
How it used to be endearing, sweet.
How it’s not anymore.

The moon will get tired
of being the one in orbit.

The ocean will wish the land
wasn’t so dirty.

The land will tell the ocean
to get off its back.

The sky will not be able to stop yawning
every time the sun shows its broad face.

The sun will get tired of trying
to amuse the sky with radiation.

The volcano will hold its breath,
stubborn as a child.

Summer and Winter will have a secret affair,
leaving Spring and Fall angry and confused.

The fox will stop chasing the rabbit,
but the rabbit won’t realize it.

The roots will storm off in a huff,
crying to the tree,
Why do we do all the work around here?

The bee will nuzzle up to the flower
but the flower will say it has a headache.

The rain will fall in love with itself.

The north pole will start feeling crowded
by the south pole.  The south pole will feel
lonely.

The tree will lose the squirrel’s phone number.

The shark will lose its appetite, sulk
all day at the foot of the reef,
refusing even the easiest snacks.

The tornadoes will refuse to touch down.

The crickets will pack their bags
and move out of dusk’s apartment, singing,
you done me wrong, you done me wrong.

The feathers will petition
for a no-fault divorce from the crow.

It will be the biggest, meanest,
most low-down, no-pulled-punches break-up
in the history of history.

The stars will want to say something,
but won’t.

The universe will refuse to take sides.

Things will be thrown out of windows,
burned to cinders.

There will be weeping
and blaming
and irrational, impulsive shopping.

Everyone will need therapy
but no one will get any.

 

First Chest Pain

Lava-fist
macho handshake
switchblade poppy
springing open

beneath my breastbone.
It’s still pre-dawn dark
when you first assert yourself.

I suck in my breath,
sit up in bed
and spy cold Venus
burning a hole
through the window
and perhaps
boring into my sternum

and next to me
a body turns and sighs
before returning to the depths –

and then you’re gone.

Only later
will you earn the name
of “first,”
joining the pantheon of

first step, first word, first kiss,
first sex, first love, first piercing,
first poem, first job, first root canal,
first retirement plan, first breakout, first breakup,
first heartbreak, first classroom,

first experiment in Thai cuisine,
first graduate degree, first tennis elbow,
first quitting smoking, first bad knee,
first thirty-fifth birthday,
first last will and testament.

But for now,
if only for ten more minutes,
you are singular, utterly unique,
a series of one.

Head back on the pillow,
Venus’ eye on me,
I press the heel of my hand
between my breasts,
reaching for you.

On The First Date

Tonight, in cinnamon darkness,
after candle-lit dinner, he’ll propose

something naughty, though she won’t
understand his cubism metaphor

until years later, after the rabbit dies,
after he finally leaves her.  Tonight, though,

there will be no serious turbulence – only
glasses of wine that will seem sacramental;

and the twirl of her love for him will turn
tight cartwheels in her stomach, and, after,

a little regret will bark out
one small gull’s cry in her ear.