Member Poem

"What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly." — Richard Bac

The end of the world is brought with a single kiss--
the Armageddon rides 
on the soft arms of children 
who kiss and hug the scariness out of death,
like a lullaby,
the wash of wood drifting inland at daybreak.

The end of the world is brought with a gift of food--
an apple, banana, and package of smoked ham.
Eat it until the fullness pushes out tears that speak
until the inaudible song trills
on fingertips and the roots of hairs,
the swish of tree branches in mountain mist.

The end of the world is brought by a singular act of kindness--
a carefully positioned intention
in the argument for why
hate is necessary to slough off dead cells,
to clear away the debris, and bring in the new, 
for new life is implanted in shadow of death.

The end of the world begins in the pituitary gland--
some have envisioned their end in full spectral thought,
the energy grows a tumor in the brain,
the right and left hemispheres are wings of butterflies.
Newborn hunger serrates the world, leaf by leaf,
until the designs let in the light, like lace, our cocoons are fragile still.

The end of the world begins in the thought--
that one could suddenly become anything else.
It is possible to create from bones and breathe the sewn parts to life.
It is possible to die and live and remember the cycle until
it's no longer enough of a significant event as to raise the heart beat.
Give up the chase, sit down in the grass, the butterfly alights on your head.