Jeannine Hall Gailey

A NARCISSIST'S APOCALYPSE

 

If my own light is burning out, then it feels right
that the earth’s should too. Shut down the sun,
let the crops wilt and suffer. As my blood stops running,
so too should the rivers and seas, no longer reliable
in their courses, no longer teeming with life. My spirit
is dim as this forever-twilight and the animal inside me
noses around the forest, confused. If this is the end,
let me tell the story. Let me write it in stone, send it out
into the universe on a rocket. Rage, rage against the dying.
Go supernova. Once I twirled my hair in my fingers,
once my lips kissed other lips dry and warm. Once my heart
beat and the world spun on its axis. Nothing wobbled.
Nothing was uncertain. There was a house on a street
with a smiling sky above. There were wars and rumors of wars.
Mass extinctions. Yes, the occasional earthquake, tsunami, tornado.
yes, the occasional storm, crying out, asking for attention.
But now, everything quivers, restless and itching, waiting
for the final signal, the shutdown, the last penetrating burst,
the eyelids stuttering closed, the last breath exhaled, the soul unlit.

                                    
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