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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