Eschatology
by Kathryn Muensterman
The end of all things starts in the weeds,
my head on your knee, mosquito bite legs
in grass-stained white shorts.
Musk of white clover flowers tucked into my palm
in sweat-dried moon cool July. Slipped
into my pocket, buried
between yellowed pages that week. When leaves fall
it’s fragile like a body—raise it gently
or watch it crumble
in the fire, your hand thumbing mine,
charred paper trumpet blast grass digs
ditches in our elbows and thighs.
You break the seventh seal, I confess
over coffee, trade
absolution for egg sandwiches,
dance with the angel in my kitchen.
Cut off the hand
that causes me to sin.
(Next morning put it on again.)
When the Lord comes again or calls me to him
it will start in the spring. Start with ruddy evening cheeks,
voice like heavy cream and honey gold hair,
eyes like the slow mineral cool of earth.
It will start with rebirth,
With your hand, with the new grass, the clover
and the bugs that consume, consume,
consume.
Behold, I am making all things new.
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