The
Apocalypse
Basically a milk-shake,
flix with emerald
wings.
Old aunt re-marks,
pretends
to be a fan—it is
necessary
to shake it to the
top,
to propose; but this is
out of nowhere. Abso-
lutely; to describe myself,
our clean simplicity, he
stammers, and holds them
both down, wise with frozen
ice. The weather is our young
home. Everything cracked:
the floor, the blinds, the door.
Always, we have a great story
to keep our spirits up. But oh,
man, when you hold me the
apocalypse returns.
Predictions
I can't separate the variations that
are two moments in my memory.
Time continues what has already
passed. The passage of time means
recognition of
you,
sending a stream of light into my
field of view. The immutable var-
iable, my desires, intentions and
hopes, creating and transmitting
energy. My future is where you are.
I think so.
Hurricane
Season
I’ll tell you what I think,
because I have seen the
light as I walk down the
street, an old woman
returning to a school she
is too old to attend; I will
never live here again, with
the common tree, a common
dog, snoring and burrowing.
20 years have passed here,
an old town dedicated to
him instead of me. Every
summer, I still know to go
there, like when you wake
up after a hurricane and
the siren is god, speaking
to
you: you survived.
Eve Young is a writer from West Yorkshire. Her poetry has been published, or is forthcoming, in New Feathers Anthology, BRUISER, Epiphany, The Journal, Littoral Magazine, Home Planet News, and Visions International, and longlisted for the AUB International Poetry Prize.