The Last Woman on Earth (There is No Roar) by Justin Holliday
The world seized on the day you walked out: stomps
on ground, grass withered to crystal, snapping
under white heels. You left all of the men
in your life. I wanted you to wrap me
in your feathered train—like a wedding gown,
you shirked off your old skin’s duties
onto the rocks, acting as if you were
Eve, the only one there to capture clouds.
Tangerine sparks shot from your hallowed crown
illuminating our epicene pleas
for your return to the fiberglass world.
Our fingers clung to your dress; your colorless
lips breathed to the sky, and we lost our grip
as charcoal confetti burst from your brain,
making the world swallow its thickened tongue.
Justin Holliday teaches at Clemson University. His work has appeared in Main Street Rag, Collective Fallout, Curio, and Carnival.
The world seized on the day you walked out: stomps
on ground, grass withered to crystal, snapping
under white heels. You left all of the men
in your life. I wanted you to wrap me
in your feathered train—like a wedding gown,
you shirked off your old skin’s duties
onto the rocks, acting as if you were
Eve, the only one there to capture clouds.
Tangerine sparks shot from your hallowed crown
illuminating our epicene pleas
for your return to the fiberglass world.
Our fingers clung to your dress; your colorless
lips breathed to the sky, and we lost our grip
as charcoal confetti burst from your brain,
making the world swallow its thickened tongue.
Justin Holliday teaches at Clemson University. His work has appeared in Main Street Rag, Collective Fallout, Curio, and Carnival.
