The end of the world

by Irina Mashinski

The end of the world
for Ray Bradbury

Time. It belongs to us,
not more than, say, the moon,

Time, oblivious to whatever
a wife hears in the evening
from her misanthrope on the couch with a newspaper.

She listens patiently to the appalling details
of the latest news,
and she sneaks out to bury them in the recycling bin

with an iron weight on top

Nobody sees her but the moon.

So, it’s tomorrow—the last day of the world, at least
until the evening when it is once again
second to last.
state
the hidden and the obvious
the concealed and the overt

shout to be heard
bending your head lower and lower toward your heart

speak as if you have a grasp of time
and of the mystery of numbers and letters

speak through a spent throat and cracked lips
losing what is left
of your mind and your will

dying

speak out as if the time has come to speak
your time
the time of joy
your time of joy

enunciate
what cannot be uttered

speak
blessed by the spark of speech
in the beginning of the end
at the center of the world
in the darkness of darkness

speak
as if you want to give things their true names

everything you might say
could ever say
just say it