End Times

there is the land where we are all together, it exists.

my lawn becomes your lawn, the fence taken down,

the metal becomes your daughter’s new bike. 

i teach her how to ride the way the neighborhood

kids taught me. not my parents, but also my parents. 

they’re there. i can count them on my two hands, two 

is such a tender number. the only thing better is three, 

the only thing better is four, the only thing better is pulling

up too many chairs round a too-small table. i love this

place,

that i never get to see. this isn’t the land i call home. 

my home is not your home. the singular possessive

ruins everything. it’s funny when you learn a language, 

possession isn’t where you start.

no, first you learn the words for colors. first you learn

the words for numbers. first you learn the words 

for specific relatives. you learn the words for pencils

and the things that hold pencils: bag, box, case, 

hand. what do you do with pencils? you write,

draw, sharpen, break, lend, borrow, lose, give 

them away. 

and then when it feels like too much, 

you learn to call it yours, your life, your right, 

your burden, 

which can never be anyone else’s. 

you keep it close to your chest. 

hours and hours you spend like this, yours, 

his and hers, theirs, all the there’s. you get confused.

you have to get to ours. the hours to ours, where 

it breaks against the sun (ours), the world (ours),

the land (ours), the fence (ours), life (ours)

away with the particular, away with the singular.

god (ours), you (ours), us (ours)

time (ours) 

hours (ours)