Erin Carlyle

End of the World

​I’m sitting at a bus stop, waiting
to get a lift

to some other plane
of existence.

The trees in this town
used to sway, almost whisper.

Now they’re too dry,
too dead. I have a memory

of kissing a boy
under these oaks.

Clean, pastoral, we laid

down on the cool, soft earth,
and the earth was spongy, gave

under the weight of our bodies.
I have to say that there were other

trees here too:
Pine, White Ash, Silver

Maple, American Beech,
and it smelled old,

like dirt. The boy
slid his hand under my shirt

and I sucked
in the air, filled

my lungs—fresh, but I stopped him
before heavy breathing,

made my hand
guide his hand

out into the crisp light
of day. I told him

it was too fast, and I didn’t get
a second date, never saw him again.

Now I’m sitting here looking
at the burn and ruin trying

to breathe like that,
but it’s too hard.

I want to give
up. I don’t think

there’s a bus coming,
but there’s a bird circling above.

--
Erin Carlyle is a poet living in Atlanta, Georgia. Her poetry often explores the connections between poverty, place, and girlhood, and can be found in journals such as Tupelo Quarterly, Ruminate, and Prairie Schooner. Her debut full-length collection, Magnolia Canopy Otherworld, is out now on Driftwood Press.