Last Days

One evening, as we sat on our patio,

there was a great crack! and a hole opened

in the back yard.  Dead souls streamed out,

unreeling upwards, all in black and white

and mildly lighted like an old movie.

Holy shit! we shouted,

before we knew we shouldn’t, and then

there were more cracks! and more holes.

More souls, as if the topsoil were unknitting itself.

People fled inside and stared out

at all the spirits rising like a backward rain.

Since then, we’ve been waiting, for what

we don’t know.  Is God nigh?  That’s the question.

We’ve sent up flares and planes,

but there’s a thick cloud layer and no information.

And so, in the half-light our days have become,

we go to the churches to plead

and to the nightclubs for comfort,

pulling our chairs in from the windows

to watch the floor show at the center of the room.

If you knew Susie like I know Susie—

Oh, Oh, Oh, what a girl!

At these times, the dead are like wallpaper.

This is not to say we can ignore them.

We’re trying to repent and not to dread,

though I don’t like walking through the dead.

You feel as if you’d passed in front of a projector:

there’s no sensation, but there’s a shadow on you,

and for a moment, a face replaces

your face.  It seems only right to stand still.

It seems only right to run.

Charlotte Muse