When the world ended,
By Remi Recchia
Golden shovel after Emily Dickinson
we couldn't find our passports. I
looked in the sandbox, in the shed—I heard
them crying out under the bed, maybe, like a
child sick from nightmares. One fly
sticking to the window. We remembered the buzz
of a Sunday hangover, spiraling nights with friends when
we could afford such luxuries. Now I
am sober and the bars have died.
Bombs sounded across the
globe, ethereal creatures breaking the stillness
of heat. We couldn't find our passports in
dusty attics or kitchen drawers or the
gas tank filled with fumes. Not in the lived-in room.
The recycling bin came up empty. The dog was
playing dead, as always, like
a corpse ballooned under a street lamp moon, the
mailman never sure what to say. The dog's stillness
the first warning sign we missed. What is the cataclysm in
this life? When does a marriage become the
cutting board of two strangers? The air
conditioning sang timidly between
our arguments and ultimatums. The
vows we'd exchanged caught under our tongues, heaving
resentment, maybe. My mouth of
diamonds. Your mouth of storm.
Source: https://www.tamupress.com/book/9781680034165/addiction-apocalypse/
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