Sunday Morning, Two Years Ago

I always thought there would be screaming in the streets, 

The unearthly crackle of fireballs, all of that. 

But it’s quiet. Reluctantly and relentlessly quiet. 

The metronome of the plastic doomsday wall clock—

I imagine the sound of dust particles 

Floating in a shaft of sunlight,

Their heft when they finally settle on the rug,

Or on a framed picture of happier chaos.

Maybe it’s not the end of all times, because

There’s a yellow flower growing between the

Serrated succulent leaves on the windowsill. 

It’s thin and stooped and hunched over by

An unseen heaviness, but it’s there. 

I fry bacon and he sleeps in.

Outside, church bells summon no one to nowhere. 

The end of times: the Sunday morning

We had always hoped for.

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Cover photo by Bernadetta Watts