~
When the World Falls Apart
When the world falls apart,
and all that is left behind are
charred bushes and blown over street signs
and cats catapulting off of slumped over rooftops,
it will be bearable if we are together.
We would tackle the urban terrain like
modern-day survivors on a NatGeo reality show
and you would gather Pringles and dried fruit
and keep me away from dangerous others—
like gun-crazy men and politicians and bears.
We will have a trusty survival guide
that will teach us both how to siphon gas
and live peacefully in the wilderness.
It will be hard, but fun because the joy of life
is in your music and my words and all the stories between us.
We wake up from scraped up dreams
all ice ages and cavemen and poodle-sized mosquitoes
and wonder how we learned to time travel—
would our love survive or would we bow
to tribal roles and vicious meat battles?
You amaze the cavepeople
with your not-so-cave-like drawings,
and tell them about the future,
all of the history that lies between them and us—
Roman intrigue and Chinese dynasties and Hollywood.
They think you are God or the Devil or least an alien—
in any case, they are scared and give us pelts
and whatever kind of jerky there is
and we leave together
between the moon and the dirt.
On their cave walls we’ve left behind
cartoon strips and recipes and poetry
and reasons why
women should not be dragged.
The world is a fragile place.
You would think that it would
chew up and spit out people like us.
But we are the ones who will survive.
We are not jealous, hoarding types.
Home is where we are, with our dog and cat pack,
which we will have to protect
because they can’t fend for themselves.
Maybe we are like them—once wolves and bobcats,
now soft and finicky. No. We are not “once human.”
Our love makes us Oscar-winning, best-scene-ever strong.
If we were POWs and were separated, I would not betray you.
I would not believe their lies or their chocolates or their sudden humanity.
And if our injured country goes the way of
Hoovervilles and soggy socked misery,
our joys will be found in candlelight moments,
our cold breath shooting between us
on the coldest night of the year.
~
J.B. Hill
J.B. Hill’s recent poetry and short stories have appeared in The San Antonio Review, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, The Dillydoun Review, Funicular Magazine, Bridge Eight Literary Magazine, Cathexis Northwest Press, The Closed Eye Open, Wild Roof Journal, and Black Fox Literary Magazine. Hill has worked as a reporter in Boston, a screenplay analyst in Los Angeles, and a freelance writer and editor in Austin. She earned a BFA in Writing, Literature, and Publishing from Emerson College where she worked in the editorial department at Ploughshares. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter @ideamakerupper, on Facebook @jbhillwriter, and at www.ideamakerupper.com.