Weekly poem on Trump Presidency



Ode To The End Of The World

The moon is a part of Mars,
its naked mouth speaks out 
to the heavens. The rings of Saturn 
are themselves lost children 
approaching the end like the leaves 
of the sullen oak are part of the limbs 
of the lynched. Such is the work 
of the monster—its peculiar, 
screaming look at me, the Alpha part 
of a longer story of Omega, 
arc across an ephemeral
dome. Inside the storm cloud, I watch
for reasons to frame the weather, 
that long way down from form 
to function. Meet time, the ribbon. 
Meet time, the cone. The neighbor-
hood cats give their word to return
as soon as the end of the world 
makes itself comfortable on the lawn.
Regardless of shape, we know the end
is no sober drunkwalk on the side
of a highway. There are so many
ways to swerve. Has wonder never 
ceased? Annihilation turns out to be
so quiet, the sound of barely 
audible hunger-moans 2,000 miles away. 
For a lifetime, I’ve been drinking 
milk jugs of disruption, then I awoke
from my dream & realized 
I wasn’t just learning how to dance, 
I was the dance itself. 


Alexis Orgera is author of two books of poetry, How Like Foreign Objects and Dust Jacket, and a forthcoming memoir-in-fragments, Head Case. Her poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Bennington Review, Chattahoochee Review, Hotel Amerika, New South, Sundog Lit, Third Coast and The Tiny. She is the co-founder of Penny Candy Books, an indie picture book press that aims to start big conversations between kids and their adults.


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