I can’t stop writing about the world ending. I’d like to pretend that it doesn’t mean anything.

3:33

I woke up today. the doves have been here again. the dust told me so,
outlining their footmarks, all pointed in a circle with me in the middle.
the window is shut, yet the dust bunnies still sob themselves
back to sleep.  I clean away the claw marks at the bottom of my bed.
I swear they get closer every day.

but you & me, we’re screaming about a feeling in a june riverbed
until the crack of dawn, drinking the creek water that’s turned
into wine, our denim dipped legs running as fast as we can,
sun-stained on cheeks and shoulders.  your momma told you
to put sunscreen on those damn shoulders, she’ll beat some more
of your skin raw when you get home, so much so that it’ll peel up
just to run away. or maybe she won’t, i hear she’s been trying
to act real good since the Lord is coming home, the preacher
is awfully excited. and holding hands with you is like
holding a dog’s tongue, sticky and unclean,
but I’ll be holding this dog’s tongue till the end of my days.

eyelashes and dandelion puffs fly through the air,
carrying all of our wishes with them. I laugh. “I bet God’s eyelashes
are made of ours, and he uses these dandelion puffs for nose hairs.”
“don’t be silly,” you say, “God doesn’t have nose hairs.
he’s too respectable for that, bet he has a beard or somethin’.”
all our wishes rise up to the air, but the clocks are chiming loud,
the loudest they ever have, and the dandelions are crying.
they beg, “God, we can’t hear you, we’re lost.”
the clocks beat them down right out of the sky.
chiming, it’s 3:33. halfway to evil.

laughing, tongues out, pink where the sun can’t lick.
God, this wine is great, isn’t it?
I forgot how to eat honeysuckle. I scream at the top of my lungs,
“I bet those angels have a thousand teeth and two jaws,
three jaws, even.” (I eat the flower whole. that’s right, right?)
you spit. “jaws, what do they need jaws for, I don’t think angels
chew tobacco.” the dove behind you winks.

but I’ll never forget when we turned around too quickly
and for a second, saw us, everywhere, with new colors
I’d never even imagined. us, like ghosts, haunting ourselves.
do you think this wine is getting to me? I don’t think
I’ll ever remember how to eat honeysuckle again.
I pet the dove beside me. “what are you gonna do
when the sky falls out, buddy?” it laughs right in my face
and asks me, “what are you gonna do?” its teeth
are a whole new color I’d never seen before in my life.

the window is on the other side of the room now, isn’t that funny?
and I’ve got a stepdad, but my dad never even left.
All the universes are running together, everything is ripping apart.
there are some days that I have blue hair  and some days
that I do not know you and some days where my leg lays
on the other side of the room. But it is every day
that the dust bunnies lay decapitated on the floor.

I tried turning around too fast again today. it wasn’t black.
it was nothing, like the universe was a little slow to put on a show.
I watched as the rocks tied to the river, seams being sewed together,
watched as you were sown together, piece by piece.
you tried telling me I blinked. you knew I hadn’t.
I don’t think I’ve closed my eyes for days,
too scared they’ll get sown together.

and I’m screaming in these july riverbeds, screaming, we’ll die here.
we won’t make it, stuck between makeout rock and home,
a dove footprint stained on my forehead.
swimming in lakes— the water that’s breaking me, me and my levies—
and I sob. I don’t want to drink wine anymore.
okay, you say. no more drinking wine.

the stars start falling out of the sky. I hold a dog’s tongue.

 

Author: Zoe Conner

I'm Zoe Conner. I'm writing on a computer named Rambo, which you should only say with a rolled r. I write because I don't want to be just another cog in the machine. I live. I write. That's all you need to know.