Apocalypse, Kip McMillan


There’s something anti-phonetic about snow.
Most winters I think how hot a phrase felt when I finally pinned it down;
                        like
“I wish you were here right now”
but I also wonder if you’d be happy.
If you’d find me between the linguistics and sign language,
what I do and what I say
each one of them is lacking in certain ways.
There are days when I imagine you showing up when I least expect it,
tapping me from behind,
telling me you caught the last plane out of Ecuador
before the world came to a crashing, flailing, fiery explosion
the maps,
                        burning
the airport,
                        burning
the embassy,
                        burning
so then you don’t have to learn English
and I don’t have to travel so much
and when the world ends we don’t have to live in either of ours.

 

I wonder if you tapped me on the shoulder from behind which language I would say goodbye in.
And if it’d still be snowing.