Apr/May 2015 Poetry

The End Of The World

by Noah Engel

Photograph by Rus Bowden

Photograph by Rus Bowden

The End Of The World

Trees and Mountains were small in the distance
when you took me to the center of your campus
and pointed your twelve arms off into the view

Sitting on a few Adirondack chairs you said
the locals call this spot the end of the world
and it was quiet

Oh and it sure was the end of something
because the birds started cawing
and everyone cried on their phones with their moms

A thirty rack of Coors
and a half frozen pack of cigarettes
to hand out to the cold drunken refugees in their New Order t-shirts

And when you were naked
you told me not to look
so I moved my hand across you, eyes closed, and felt your gills

The ones you were trying to shed
that you had grown in your mother's sacred womb
above the west side highway

Hush hush hush
why are you trying to grow up so fast
pretty soon you'll be too old

to ever understand why
you tried
so damn hard

and pretty soon the Sun
will grow up too
and expand into a Red Giant

and then a Planetary Nebula
and consume what's left of this planet
and it will truly be

The end of the world


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