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The End of the World





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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