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Poetry
Speculative
An asteroid is headed for us, finally. We're watching
it tumble down full and breathless; its bowl-shaped cavities
pouring an ashen blue in the fading sunlight,
and I'm thinking this is the last time I’ll see you, Sun,
in all your cantankerous and spotted brilliance.
Fiery. Consuming. A smile so white-hot it smacks
my bones back to ancient lands and your new birth
shouted out. But, O! How they've made you so unworthy
of any praise...I can't even go out to gaze
upon your body (mouth sweetly singing and hair blurry
like a squint) without carrying buckets full of guilt-
ridden wonder—O, you! Boiling us all to a fine powdery smoke
to tingle the nose of God. But, then again, I think how you must feel:
As a frail peacock, a wide-eyed darting finch, burnt-up olive
branches at your feet, empty and starving to be filled.
If you don't mind, in this final hour, I'd like to cast a long and sultry stare
into your exploding spots, now popping with magenta, pricking my hairs
with saffron, and not be snared away, once again, by that alabaster moon.
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Copyright 2008, Amanda McQuade. All rights reserved. Amanda McQuade attended university in Ohio where she studied American Literature. Recently her work has appeared in Glass, MO: Writings from the River, Mississippi Crow, and Ruminate. For the moment she and her husband live in Los Angeles.
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