Meredith Stewart Kirkwood
POEM OF AN ALMOST APOCALYPSE
(FOR A TIME NOT NOW, BUT MAYBE)
The wise grew quiet.
Their eyes glazed over in supermarkets.
They looked out of windows
at the space between rain.
No one knew what they were thinking anymore.
The few who wondered were afraid to ask.
Was this the After All
The End? Or had it always been the end?
Were the storm clouds gathering
their energy from the anger of the earth
or from the love in one woman’s heart?
The wise listened.
They heard the vibration of atoms
singeing in the body of a squirrel.
They heard the phonemes of flowers:
anther and filament calling stigma and style.
No one knew what it meant
whether grace remembered or forgot.
Was history preserved in the cytoplasm of each cell?
Or was it the erasure in the water of time?
The wise stopped reading the fine print.
Their muscles slacked before mysteries
convulsed in crowded rooms.
They knew that stars had died
to make pine beetles
that viruses dropped genes
in the alluvium of life.
Rumors surfaced that resurrection
was still possible.
It was gossip so easy to dismiss.
Was death a bright line
like the tail of a comet?
Or like a shadow getting darker in the sun?
The wise breathed deeply.
They went to the ocean
to count plastic bags against the roar.
Was the silence still necessary
or like a bird’s extra twitch in the air?
(FOR A TIME NOT NOW, BUT MAYBE)
The wise grew quiet.
Their eyes glazed over in supermarkets.
They looked out of windows
at the space between rain.
No one knew what they were thinking anymore.
The few who wondered were afraid to ask.
Was this the After All
The End? Or had it always been the end?
Were the storm clouds gathering
their energy from the anger of the earth
or from the love in one woman’s heart?
The wise listened.
They heard the vibration of atoms
singeing in the body of a squirrel.
They heard the phonemes of flowers:
anther and filament calling stigma and style.
No one knew what it meant
whether grace remembered or forgot.
Was history preserved in the cytoplasm of each cell?
Or was it the erasure in the water of time?
The wise stopped reading the fine print.
Their muscles slacked before mysteries
convulsed in crowded rooms.
They knew that stars had died
to make pine beetles
that viruses dropped genes
in the alluvium of life.
Rumors surfaced that resurrection
was still possible.
It was gossip so easy to dismiss.
Was death a bright line
like the tail of a comet?
Or like a shadow getting darker in the sun?
The wise breathed deeply.
They went to the ocean
to count plastic bags against the roar.
Was the silence still necessary
or like a bird’s extra twitch in the air?
Meredith Stewart Kirkwood received an MFA in poetry from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas in 2007. Her poetry has appeared in The Atlanta Review, The Santa Clara Review, The New Verse News, VoiceCatcher, Windfall, and others. Meredith co-hosts a poetry reading series at the Lents International Farmers’ Market in Portland, Oregon. Find her on the web at mkirkwoodblog.wordpress.com.
