If I had
disappeared
years before today

into the hard
landscape of 
my greatest longing

and ended up as
anonymous bones
scattered along an arroyo

I would still be
better off than 
I am now. 

You don’t see
how that could be
possible. From within

your deep love
of life you
cannot see 

how such a blotting out
could be
desirable.

Look at the sunset,
which will be over
soon.  Look at

the way it reds
and then purple-grays
the west-facing slopes,

then think of 
never seeing it again
except in memory:

think of how
lovely it was and
of how its beauty

only existed
as a result of
its vanishing.

At the moment we realize
that we’ve been in 
the apocalypse 
for a while, 

we learn
as well
not to speak of it
to others

who may not
yet know
that this is
where we are

so as not to create
a general panic:
instead, it is revealed
to each of us

in exacting detail
so deep as to be 
unshakably true, 
and as we begin

to tremble 
at the impending
End, it becomes clear
to us that we must tremble

alone. Now and then 
we may see the eyes
of another who knows
and nod or perhaps

brush against
each other
in a crowd —
rogue effort

at sympathy,
comfort
in a swift
glancing touch —

then, we return
to the seemingly endless
beginning of the lonely
end. No fire, no pestilence,

no storm or epic war
in this: only the slow
madness of not being able
to share it for long with anyone.

Just going to slip underwater
and listen for a second

to strong muffled echoes
of distant shouting,

sharp snap of stones
smacked together

by children in shallow water
near shore, delighted

to discover how crisp
such things

may sound when taken out of
this world into another. 

I wonder how crisp I sound
as I take myself 

from that world to this one.
I like it here.  I think I’ll stay,

even though I’m still holding
so much, so many words

tightly inside me, wrapped in
quickening, instinctual panic

at how natural it feels
to not be breathing, to be down here

instead of above water shouting
and struggling and splashing about

as I was just a few minutes ago.
When sooner or later

I do surrender, exhale,
and sink away from all this

I’ll say and be at last
what I’ve wanted to say and be,

and will understand 
how I was supposed to sound

all along: strong and echoing,
each word informed finally

by my trust that even if there
is no salvation to be had by doing so,

I will have let it all go
as I should have done long before.

I call you out for
helping to forge 

this dagger I’ve made
of myself.

I admit my own
role in the making.

I admit to upkeep
upon the edge.

I admit to putting in
long hours learning

to use it. I admit,
I confess, I fully

concur in your
description of my

willingness to
cut and carve. But

this is your time to
say as well that

all the fight in me
would have meant nothing

or indeed might never
have happened if

you hadn’t put me
through fire and beaten me,

tempered and honed
and hilted me, gave me

balance, proved me.
You weaponized me

until I reached
my full potential.

You started me
thinking to end me;  

instead I completed me
and now you stand surprised

at what I’ve become
and what I’ve done.  I am

neither proud nor ashamed
of myself. After all is said,

I am your blade.  
Your cold steel.

How you feel,
on the other hand,

something you ought 
to consider, 

is rightly no concern
of mine.

Sweating through my clothes
in the distant face
of no imminent danger.

At least I’m bulletproof.
I’ve covered my vital organs 
in a thick layer of poems.

At least I’m buoyant if I fall in
cold water. I’m clutching
a chapbook that turns into a life raft.

At least I’m fireproof. I’m
surrounded by an impenetrable wall
of verse.  

At least I’m well-documented.
If I die, if my heart fails me
with all this stress, you’ll know

exactly who I was.