Bring On the Rapture
It began with starlings calling through thick sheets of rain,
the earth smelling sharply of bougainvillea and bone.
Your body getting lighter all the time, and mine
imbued with a landlocked heaviness.
From the time I met you, I feared you’d replace me,
that you’d cut a girl-shaped hole in the floor beneath me, then cover
and caulk the opening so there would be no break in the rhythm
between your new lover’s body and mine.
Just last week, we fought, faces smeared with bourbon and salt.
You fell silent, and I said Bring on the rapture
so long as you ascend and leave me here.
I had no way of knowing we were moving there slowly, and apart,
like the broken trains of dreams. Any day now,
the moon will swell or shrink to a sliver of itself.
And the tides will move, and the earth will turn. And will it be terrible
or beautiful to watch as you are swept away?
