The End of the World

A poem by Elizabeth Burk

I write the best love poems

to the sound of bird calls. In dreams,

I am slowly and methodically

beating someone senseless. We all are

all the time. Only when I’m far away

can I imagine you, breathing quietly

and dreaming.

I will always lose my way

like a bullet fired underwater.

The wind will whip hard at my spine—

the joy will make my throat burn

like the taste of metal. Only then

will I raise my arms like a runner 

at the end of a marathon. My lips

work silently to let go a memory

of my father—the sole time his hand rose

and fell as he struck me. I was four.

You said your father would like me

with my firm handshake, our mighty paws

woven together. When we met, my palm

maneuvered into his like a plane

into a building. But it was not

the end of the world.

I will walk further into the music

of a few birds’ mating before

the morning storm. I will forever jog

towards that boy on the park path jumping in

and out of puddles as if over an ocean,

as he re-enters the sky and earth.

Through all this, I’ve learned only

that distance is impossible.

My hands and my body

will become limp and feverish,

my fist languid as a flower. It will brush

against the other’s chin. At the end of the world,

I will always be saving somebody.

Hear Elizabeth read her poem.

The End of the WorldElizabeth Burke

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Elizabeth Burk, a psychologist, resides in New York and southwest Louisiana. Her debut full-length poetry book, Unmoored, was published by Texas Review Press (Nov 2024). She has three previous collections and her work appears in numerous journals and anthologies including Rattle, Louisiana Literature, PANK, MER and elsewhere.

Image:

Birdsong by Amee Fairbank-Brown