Today's poem is by Zoë Fay-Stindt

Dance Dance Apocalypse
       

oh future home       foxgloves bob
nod      despite heavy heads      pull up
tripwires from the garden bed      juice
tomatoes into pulp to spread on your skin
for youth      or absolution two fat peels
for each eyelid      so you can see red
red red      nothing burns anymore      nothing
scrapes      our toes have turned back
into the salamanders we knew they once were
wriggling things      pull us mush like huskies
towards the river bed      to wet      their underbellies
your ghosts      have stopped calling      your sisters
stopped biting      the ivy-burned arm      grown tough     
with scales      oh heaven keeper      handsome
hyvee cashier      last good cane's chicken     
with the fat texas toast      like a hymnal:
there must be room for all of us      i won't fill out
my name tag with dystopia      if you won't
dearheart      i'll hold your hand      i'll lick
your wounds      i'll be the emergency      contact
that can't get to the phone      right now      we can pray
for a little sex-peak      for a little      shake-me-down     
for the one good club left      and all the sweaty bodies     
wringing each other      of each wrong and raunchy     
of every left-behind      agony and we'll sleep so good     
after      yes      we'll sleep so good      in that hot
butter-slick      most possible night

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Copyright © 2023 Zoë Fay-Stindt All rights reserved
from Iron Horse Literary Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission