47th Poem: our doomsday, by Stephania Kontopanos

a friend of a friend walks into the room —
stained green couches that have seen
far
far
too much —
and there is a dropping of his shoulders,
for a sorrow he will never feel coiling
in his stomach and chest.

the next day, my mattress pulls me down
as if preparing to drag me
six feet under.

I despise the man who has done this to me
to my sisters
to my classmate who has metal in her body
to my brother who changed his name.

there is a grief that lasts beyond 24 hours
or 100 days
and has no charisma in it.

while the man mocks, face contorted,
and detracts and jeers and swings,
one of us is poring over the paper remnants
of white walls and coughing fits.
another’s feet have gone raw,
pacing,
wondering
if he will ever, ever
see Tia Sofia again.
and another has returned to Europe —
the Land of Opportunity —
to evade the gripping feeling
in their throat.

we have found out that, indeed,
the pen is mightier than the sword.
one stroke,
one signature,
one man,
will be the death of us all.

I have known the feeling
of linking arms,
skin against skin with
no romance.
only the innate desire to survive.
and we have felt oneness
through the crying,
the throat-killing shouting,
and the desperate shaking.
for that, we know we are blessed
by some alleged God.

we collectively imagine something better.
we wish we didn’t have to.