We were talking about the end of the world
while driving really slowly toward home,
and you said it would be okay if the end
came slowly, stretched itself out over months,
months of things getting worse, like the way the
dinosaurs died. There would be nothing you could do;
you spoke a lot about resignation.
You kept your eyes on the road.
I said would you quit your job? Would you spend
all day naked on the beach with me, waiting
for those months to finish, would the night sky
be ruined by the falling fires? Are you happy
like this, is what I wanted to ask, but I didn’t.
You pulled me close with one arm; the handbrake
jabbed into my ribs. You asked me about the end
of the world, would it be fire or ice, how sudden,
how slow, calmly you parked the car, and I said
I wasn’t sure if it hadn’t happened already.