Still Blinking
Cornfield aluminum recycled communion wafers.
We drank Gatorade wine from a stolen lunchbox,
sat Indian style in the irrigation ditch,
reciting Tool lyrics as scripture.
My IPhone had a cracked screen,
Her Android played only static and KORN.
We smoked straw wrappers,
wore hoodies like vestments.
God, in the form of a substitute teacher,
glassy eyed and smoked menthols.
She named a dead bird “Ezekiel.”
Buried it with her wedding ring
underneath the bleachers behind the gym
where someone graffitied “THIS IS NOT A revolution”
the snow didn’t remember our names.
Just a pager in her pocket,
still blinking after the apocalypse
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