The End of the World
What I fear isn’t the
nuclear bang but the desert unrepentant. If I were the Traveller I’d narrate
the moon hung too large, crab-beasts lurching in the futuristic primeval dark,
the shallow grave of bracken water. I want to explode like the sun, to appear eternal
in your moribund eyes. The dark blue space is too cold.
Maria S. Picone
Maria S. Picone has an MFA from Goddard College. She’s interested in adoptee issues, exile, belonging, and identity. Her poetry and translations appear in Homestead Review, the Able Muse, and Route 7 Review. Her Twitter is @mspicone, and her website is mariaspicone.com.
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Poetry