another one for the end times

my father was born into

the shadow of the bomb. time passed—

man pierced the atmosphere, touched

the distant nothing surrounding us.

the bombs never fell. the world

moved on.

so i was never told this but learned:

the world ends, daily, in one way

or another.

my mother saw the challenger burn.

imagine: 73 seconds of flight for

one lifetime of falling.

my cousin was born the year

the wall came down, halfway across

the world from where she breathed

her first cry into the empty air containing

someone's last breath. both these moments—

the end of something. the beginning of

a new world, different than the last.

preachers prophesy an apocalypse

every Tuesday, these days.

& i am no longer scared of the end times.

i have seen enough of them in this life and

i have mourned

a million nameless, faceless people thinking

to someone, i am nameless, faceless.

this is why poets write:

when the world ends (again)

i will not end with it.