Extinction Event
Response to the Scrittura Prompt: power of an opening question
Stairs descending beyond thought and no contact with the others. Phoenix trapped in my heaving chest…Have we always wanted wings?
Collective dream resigned to a future of ash snow and cold vomit, pollution settles into our eyes. The sad valley waits for that westerly wind to blow it all away, opening windows to the sky. We regard the violent sunrise of heat death, incendiary cancers, evenings when our tears are for supper.
You wouldn’t live in the western states anyway, right? Too far from the epicenter of culture, not close enough to things that allegedly matter. Stars that you could eat and chew, crunching between your teeth, cleaning you from the inside out. Mass die-offs, birds rain from the sky, fallen angels. Even wings can’t save them.
Shooting up our defenses against the loss of light inside a black hole at the edge of inception. Sirens scuttle the night sky with hunger, insects adorn the eyes of the dead, snakes eat snakes while owls look on, striking the poor rank belly of hopeless hope.
Waste is honored in another time. Open terror rises from the ground beneath our feet. Vultures remember prime carrion, the holy scarab, and his ball of dung dance, while sad clown plays the ukulele. We killed the monarchs to grow corn. We failed the test. We wasted the moment — survived only long enough to hurt ourselves more in the future.
Thanks to J.D. Harms for this prompt. My writer’s voice has been full of questions during this year’s fire season — when the skies are sullied by thick smoke for weeks on end, and the red sun lends itself to apocalyptic musings.
