Blackout

They say, when the end comes

we will get almost no warning;

We might see a few rockets

on social media, a few people

asking, “is that photoshopped?”

or, “this is fake news, right?”

Ten minutes later, the lights go out.

 

Last night, we had a blackout.

I lit a candle in the dark, and

waited hours, heart pounding,

to see if lamps would flicker back

into some state of life. I recall

praying- another week. I want

another week. We all deserve at

least one more week. To undo

big mistakes with small acts of

kindness. To forgive. To swallow

our pride, and tell the other one,

 

“I still love you,” or

“I am starting to love you,” or

maybe even, “I am sorry, I never

really loved you, and maybe I

shouldn’t still be with you.”

 

I want another meal I did not have

to stand in line for; I want to eat

it slowly, with great relish, by the

beautiful overhead electric

fluorescent lights of my own kitchen,

and I want them to turn on when I

flip a switch. I want to hear my mother’s

voice across the thousands of miles

that separate us. I want- beg for- demand-

 

Another week in this world knowing

that you and I still are safe, still

might one day make something of

this. I want another chance to get

love and life and everything in-between

right, I want another week to leave

my unwritten words on so many

blank pages; to learn a melody for the

song in my heart; to share my untold

story with those who think they know me.

 

I want my chance to die

from natural causes.

 

 

Author's Note

As we wait to see how many other shoes will drop on the world stage, it is easy to forget sometimes how interconnected we all really are. How losing a satellite to an EMP pulse would cripple communications and much ower generation even here. Every time the power goes out now, I pray it will come back on.

Spanish version here:
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/zorra_encantada/1955452/

Reviews

[Paul Bell]

I wonder how many people want to die from natural causes. I think the epitaph in the western world reads. They died under the wheels of the bakers van, when it hit the fast food shop. ( Really need to stop being cynical. lol)

[Marie Anzalone]

Well, your response was better than the one I received last week. Or maybe not. I shared this poem, along with a few others with a fellow poet in my city. He was surprised that I would write about nuclear war; and he remarked, "Wow, I had no idea you were such a romantic."

I replied that I save my romanticism for special occasions. Yes, semi-fluent in 5 languages- English, Spanish, Science, Sarcasm, and Romance. The tragedy of my life is when I respond in one, when it maybe should been another. Five more lifetimes I'll get this thing called living, right, Maybe.

[Paul Bell]

A sarcastic romantic. That is a science in itself.
What is living anyway. Death and taxes. Then they set you alight. Could be worse i suppose.

[Marie Anzalone]

there was that short story, I forget by whom, about the funeral home in Mexico that refused to do the cremation services for the man of the family, as they could not afford to pay- so they set his body up as a display for the Day of the Dead. Bradbury, maybe? That might be worse.

[Paul Bell]

Certainly comes close.