100 Ways to Say Apocalypse by Francis de Lima

I would say I’ll come back, but I can’t promise that any more than I can promise rain.

100 Ways to Say Apocalypse

by Francis de Lima

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Continuous points of failure. Nature is a dense collection of objects. I forgot to send the email. I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to finish the book. Ekolokero. My job is that of taking care of ruins. Ruins. The song in all things. My father saying he misses England and my friends. My friends. I got you a magnet. The lakeside, at night, the trees against the night sky like the ridges of an iris. Like roots. Like nerve-endings. Like trees. I don’t think it matters. My mother collecting magnets. The kid dressed in a full Santa-costume saying goodnight to everyone outside. Children &. The rubble. A full stop. The little we have to say. The liquid punch of the moon. The security guard at the airport saying brother like it wasn’t a bullet but an invitation. Open hands that are invitations. Are you working tomorrow? The morning sun when it’s pale like a stranger. The sky an expectant blank canvas. Have you eaten? The cashier’s eyes bright like a funeral & by that I mean bright. My grandfather growing a beard to prove that he could. My hair greying at 18. Saying I take part in your sadness instead of condolences. Someone choosing North. Choosing South. Choosing. Otan osaa. Lightning without thunder. Tide-pools. The tide. Resistance. My mother saying it is snowing. Dropping cinnamon and turmeric in the glass jar to make the earth weep. To recreate, in its own image, the earth. Desire. Vapour-trails like someone zipping up the sky & flaming above the clouds. Climate. The driver wondering at the weather. The UN strategically forgetting the word environment. The co-pilot flying this time around. The wind that does not think of deserving. Two contradicting thoughts in our heads simultaneously. Death and death. Encontros & despedidas. Meaning and the bit. Amor fati and the other. The mesh. Still. The books in dollhouses are real paper and you can write on them. There’s no reason for that. This here sunset, playing the trumpet. My cousin collecting our grandmother’s poetry into a pamphlet saying I wanted to build her an autobiography. To be one person for one day, for one other person. My friends waiting outside the bus station. I would say I’ll come back, but I can’t promise that any more than I can promise rain. The stone circle of their faces. Just their faces. Your face. Your face. Your face & the rain.