I can’t wait to see how the world ends
because the template for apocalypse looks
the same every time: cataclysm chased
by silence. Movies, novels, television shows,
the guys in rags and incense on the platform
at 23rd Street? I suspect they’re wrong, that
things won’t be so dramatic. Someone says
our hearts need crushing when we’re young
because adults won’t spring back whole.
There’s a machine at the junkyard that reduces
a car to the size of a steamer trunk and I
was born inside it. The collapse of the planet
will be tediously slow. Find a partner, hold on
to a lonely stranger, kiss, cuddle, make love,
do whatever you must in order to feel safe.
When the rain starts, it will be for the last time.
About the Author
SM Stubbs co-owned a bar in Brooklyn that had to close during the pandemic. He is the recipient of a scholarship to Bread Loaf, has been nominated for the Pushcart and Best New Poets, and is the winner of the 2019 Rose Warner Poetry Prize from The Freshwater Review. His work has appeared in numerous magazines, including Poetry Northwest, Puerto del Sol, Carolina Quarterly, New Ohio Review, Iron Horse Literary Review, Crab Creek Review, December, and The Rumpus.