Would infant-racket, sun-glare, angry sky
build or bury a life? We met late in the day,
a hundred seconds to midnight on the doomsday
clock, with nothing in our closets but our frisky
and risque tumble towards each other. Why
lament the end of the world when you can greet Day
One of the catastrophic aftermath in day-
light and in comfortable clothes? Ten seconds in, I
knew I wanted to be touching your skin
when everything ends. Maybe the world is a seed
that opens by fire. Or destroy is the joined twin of create.
Maybe the earth sees stars as closer kin.
Some legends hum a prayer the gods won’t heed.
In other myths, the angel comes too late.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 27, Issue 3.
Amy Meckler received her MFA in creative writing from Hunter College, where she garnered the Academy of American Poets Award, among other honors. Her first collection, What All the Sleeping Is For, won the 2002 Defined Providence Press Poetry Book Award and was published that year. She works in New York City as a Sign Language interpreter. Amy also blogs at You Have Spinach In Your Teeth.
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