by Patricia Young

    It's so quiet now the children have decided¹ to stop

    being born. We raise our cups in an empty room.

    In this light， the curtains are transparent² as gauze.

    Through the open window we hear nothing

    no airplane， lawn mower³， no siren

    speeding its white pain through the city's traffic.

    There is no traffic. What remains⁴ is all that remains.

    The brick school at the five points crosswalk

    is drenched⁵ in morning glory.

    Its white flowers are trumpets⁶

    festooning this coastal⁷ town.

    Will the eventual⁸ forest rise up

    and remember our footsteps？ Already

    seedlings⁹ erupt through cement，

    crabgrass heaves through cracked marble，

    already wolves come down from the hills

    to forage¹⁰ among us. We are like them now，

    just another species looking to the stars

    and howling extinction¹¹.

    They say the body accepts any kind of sorrow，

    that our ancestors lay down on their stomachs

    in school hallways， as children they lay down

    like matches waiting for a nuclear fire.

    It wasn't supposed to end like this：

    all ruin and beauty， vines waterfalling down

    a century's architecture； it wasn't supposed to end

    so quietly， without fanfare¹² or fuss，

    a man and woman collecting rain

    in old coffee tins. Darling，

    the wars have been forgotten.

    These days our quarrels are only with ourselves.

    Tonight you sit on the edge of the bed loosening your shoes.

    The act is soundless， without future

    weight. Should we name this failure？

    Should we wake to the regret at the end of time

    doing what people have always done

    and say it was not enough？

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