To Die Human

We’d all changed since those muted days

in the dried grass under the glow

of unfulfilled California promises.

The billionaires were dead or hiding now.

Contingency plans had been crossed out

then circled, then crossed out again.

To die human was a privilege.

Clara grew plums. She grew the tree

from the knotted pits. Pushed her fingers

down under the purple flesh

and ripped out their tiny hearts.

Made a tall fence to surround it

and dreamed that maybe one day

children might sit under it.

They didn’t need to be her children,

just some living proof of continuation.

Zora, her friend, lived nearby someplace

that used to be dirty and abandoned

where she kept her crisp white sheets

and bartered-for coffee grounds

and the dried flowers from her mother.

Her ex-girlfriend who,

deep in the throes of tongued suggestion

felt that maybe god really was real

had moved upstate. Maybe

she had started a cult. Or maybe

she was alone. Maybe, both.

Zora said it was none of her business.

But she kept her toothbrush just in case.