Читать книгу Slant Six - Erin Belieu - Страница 8

ARS POETICA FOR THE FUTURE

The Rapture came

and went without incident,

but I put off folding my laundry,

just in case.

Also, from my inbox this morning,

subject header:

“Lesbian Torture Camps.”

The mind ricochets like a fly—

is there anything left for people

to do to people?

Meanwhile, my boyfriend

looks forward to the apocalypse

as a retirement party

he pretends he won’t be

attending, like the characters

in the movie who climb the highest

building, wanting to be the first

to welcome the spaceship.

In this world,

I’ve given up sleep for dreaming

and art is still our only flying car,

but I can’t recall when anticipation

became the substitute for hope.

Recently, C. said, “Now we begin

the poems of our Great Middle Period.”

I imagine digging a series of small

holes, burying poems in Ziploc

baggies. I imagine them as baby teeth

knocked from the present’s mouth.