by Freya Jackson
Artwork, “Untitled” by Mary Cozens
& the newscasters do not break
down, when they speak, they
are so used to agony
they have grown a second skin. They
have been trained for this,
their voices are even. They equivocate,
even at the end, reports suggest,
perhaps, a month, perhaps,
less perhaps, we are waiting
for confirmation, for the gods,
for it is only at home that they sluice
off their masks and bathe in their
quiet griefs. Even the apocalypse
cults are surprised. They still feel a
strange tang of loss, though
they counted the days, read the
scripture. They were correct,
I guess, it’s strange
watching them interviewed on
the news, the new
establishment the end of all
things is coming,
has come.
I found out when I was walking
ten miles of
quiet in every direction and
the After-Brian dog sniffling
at my feet, I wanted
to call him Not-Brian but the children
pitched a fit, so we called
him Toby instead. My palms were
stained with blackberry
juice, the wild kind; I want to like
wild blackberries but they
have too much bitterness, a pervading
sense of uncleanness and
a strangeness to the taste.
Preserved blackberries are better,
softer, sweeter – but I wanted
to learn to love difficult
things. My phone started
ringing, with five missed calls
flashing on the screen. The
world is ending, they
say, the world is ending, it’s time
mum, I guess. I guess,
it’s time. Tim is so much like
his father, like this, his
calm voice,
the open wood behind, the wound
in my throat re-stitches
itself to fit his come home,
mum, come home. Brian is gone,
the house is sold
I’m not even sure where home
is, anymore. Come home,
mum, Tim says, come home.