Armageddon, Mon Amour
Low-flying planes surrender their tears. The choice is
always the same, wake up for good or turn over in your
sleep. In the peach orchard the children seek the scant
cover of leaves. You're pretty sure there's no e in
Follow the weather of longing, fat, pink Rubenesque
clouds, signs that say Evacuation Route, the sound of
heavy doors opening and closing in the architecture of
voids, as the gunship slips away, the queen of hearts and
her retinue on deck, and the murk of twilight shushing the
world and everything in it.
Police on horses tried to keep control. People ran along
the streets, opening their mouths and shrieking, little
fountains of blood gushing out. She had pictured it
beginning differently. What o'clock is it? a red rooster
wanted to know. The blood stood in puddles in some places
in the road. It was all strangely old-fashioned, the
sunlight in her hair making a glory about her head.
It was like seeing someone you love go mad and do horrible
things. Those who couldn't walk were beaten. In an
insignificant café down a back street, parents exchanged
children. The air was all murderous iron, a long wailing
sound, invented especially for the end of the world.
who has time
in the holes
made by grenades
Howie Good is the author of a full-length poetry collection, Lovesick, and 21 print and digital poetry chapbooks. With Dale Wisely, he is the co-founder of White Knuckle Press.