Say darkness. Not revelation—
I am not the end of the world.
I am the world.
Under your world. Where you fry
potatoes for your granddaughter’s lunch, press
a cheese sandwich into a pan. Tell her
how I shatter the elks’ lungs, how birdsong
bakes on my breath. Ask your God about His painstaking
forest. Ask what He saw
in His three days of darkness. Were there rivers
of boiling tar? Were there watchmen? Ask
who will judge and who will stand
but tell the girl about the fire
beneath her feet rising,
crumbling the dust.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 1.
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