What We Did Before Our Apocalypse
We stockpiled all the bottled water we could find. We argued
over Christmas trees until all the good ones were gone.
We drove less. We starved ourselves of carbs. We buried
Muhammad Ali in Kentucky. We ran on charisma.
We took the batteries out of the smoke detectors so all the toys
would run. We jiggled the toilet handle to try to fix the problem.
We let people who were acting like assholes merge into
the carpool lane. Orgied out, we debated canceling HBO.
We packed our suitcases without hairspray and barely
any liquids at all. We reversed our vasectomies.
We fled to the mall and bought shoes. We battled the goddamn
kitchen ants again and their relentless thirst for grease.
We watched Carrie Fisher’s heart stop on a plane. We fretted
like bigots over bathrooms in one of the Carolinas.
We cherished Alec Baldwin and reported every rogue backpack
to the authorities. Underneath the table at Buca di Beppo
we all held hands and prayed. We watched an old man insult
nearly everybody and then let him fondle the nukes.
* * * * *
Autobiography
When I was a child
the Teton Dam broke.
Everyone lost their carpet.
The mildew wouldn’t stop blossoming.
Over time, everything got better.
People bought more dogs.
I loved the yippy ones most.
Tiny and fierce and shitting everywhere.
My closet was so small.
I had almost no clothes.
We were rich in other ways.
My grandparents owned a speedboat.
And here I am today, timid
around water, but enduring.
Responsibly burying everyone I love
into that dry earth.
[These poems are included in Half-Hazard, winner of the Emily Dickinson Award from the Poetry Foundation, and published in November 2018 by Graywolf Press.]