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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.

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