the first verb at the end of the world/legacy

It remains true that people are so obsessed with the madness

and method and meter of their death, that they’re dodging 

the much more interesting question: what will their first verb be,

at the end of the world? 

Love is the just the same as thank—

as conclude, as summarise, as simplify—

like movie credits to an impassive audience,

except your competitors and cousins sit in the front row.

A striking antithesis in the reasons they’re listening: your last words 

shared by a critic’s notebook and breaking hearts.

Fables suggest it’s forgive. At least forgiveness is

a verb in motion, unlike the freeze of psychological thesis:

debating whether to fight the end or fly. A charlatan’s

first verb, frothing like an instinct, is consume—snatch

anyone’s oxygen mask

for an extra minute, another breath of earth. 

Run is overrated; squandered dynamism. Action scenes

are inimitable; no amount of heroism quells an ending that

the human can’t accept. Some believe: there’s a heaven,

there's a hell, there’s salvation in regret. 

There’s a sodden pamphlet on a sticky pub counter 

after a wake. It wears your eyes. All it does is wear your eyes. 

Bring the first verb forward.

Bring the first verb forward.

Bring the first verb forward.

© Mollie Mardel