I am sorry you think what I prophesied made you sick when it was really just bad takeout
by Danielle Gennaro
Thus, the world was
created,
is what you shout at me
over a compostable tray soaked in yesterday’s
leftovers, and suddenly
I have no recollection of arriving
at this point, sitting
here, made of cold noodles
in an apartment we can’t
afford for another year,
fighting
over whose apocalypse would be
more spectacular, whose creation
story
would make a better stage
production—
It is like we were dropped
out of a star’s momentary
dream
onto a garage sale sofa
sprouting six stories into the sky,
where our favorite wonder to plant
in the burning west-side asphalt is
how much time
we have left—
you hate it when I say that your greatest
virtue is that you are
improbable
but let me tell you it is the most
romantic thing I have ever considered,
you random cosmic happenstance, you
mathematical possibility,
you echoing ping
of a billion-year-old error
message;
sic, mundus creatus est
mundus creatus est [sic].
Thus it had been written:
I hold
your hand through the night as your atoms
burn and your gut erupts,
a noodle supernova before which
there was nothing—
and the thing I am most
sure of in the world is that we are
an accident, so
what are the odds of us?
What are the odds
of us?
Danielle earned an MFA from Manhattanville College and I have taken workshops with Brooklyn Poets and the Dylan Thomas International Summer School at the University of Wales. Danielle has previously been published in Oberon Poetry Magazine, Wizards in Space Literary Magazine, Pittsburgh Poetry Journal, Toho Journal Online, and The Raw Art Review.