Poetry
Preparing for Armageddon
C. E. Whitehead
The city's glow spreads dome-like in the background
where you live like a dog in the hills,
alone, half-crazed, burying things—
coins, canned foods, rifles, yourself.
You move secretly through the darkness,
stowing your goods, hiding in foxholes.
The world may be ending, may have ended,
and the dark be perpetual.
But it is the world you are entrenched in—
from the distance a small globe of light,
among other small globes, against a dark background.
Nearer it is simple and round
and flat at the poles.
Nearer still are the ridges and valleys
and your damned foxhole.
You want to know where the end is.
The night is stoney and black.
You want to know where the end is.
You hone your knife-blade.
You consult your map.