FEED THE WORLD
When her husband, the restaurant owner,
grew too large to live, she took over
the business. She cut pieces of his flesh
and bones, placed them in sealed containers
in the fridge. She made pudding from
his blood. Then spiced her husband’s parts
for dinner specials. The customers said
the best roast pork in town. Others complained
that the chicken was tough. And the blood
pudding tasted a bit coppery, but still good.
And you can’t beat these prices.
It was, after all, her husband’s wish to feed the world.
She remained a loyal wife.
At night, she would dig up the grave
of the grandmother who raised her,
a fortune teller who clung to draped skirts and tarot cards,
who died from a mysterious fall,
perhaps too fragile for her own skin.
The skeleton sat up in the coffin
and said “Marcy, you’ve come to
She kissed grandmother
on the right cheekbone and put
everything back in place.
The next morning at the office,
she went about her business as usual.
Everyone on their second cup of coffee.
Everyone a walking zombie.
She knew how and when each one would die.
She imagined their skeletons
stepping out of their skins,
walking pell-mell through traffic,
to the graveyard
that was not quite finished.
HOW THE WORLD ENDED
Our army corps of engineers
developed a miniature supersonic jet,
faster than any Mach VI, that upon impact
could blow up a whole metropolis and then some.
We watched the launch on our video screens
at a secret base in Europa Jar. Right away,
we knew there was a glitch. The jet
kept lifting at an upward angle, aiming
for the core of the sun, which many believed
was inhabited by the ghosts of our insane ancestors.
Within a week, the sun exploded.
The universe went deaf. The indigo sky showered
old voices. Groping for each other, we imagined
the earth spinning out of its orbit, becoming
a ping-pong ball for vengeful gods, ones
who infused methane gas, larger-than life insects,
in parallel worlds. For warmth, we dug ourselves
into the sand. We knew we were digging our
own coffins. Underground, other hands reached
for us, attempting to pull us deeper. They, like us,
must have known that the earth was always
our mother tomb.
Kyle Hemmings lives and works in New Jersey. He has been published in Elimae, Smokelong Quarterly, Blaze Vox, Matchbook, and elsewhere. He loves 50s Sci-Fi movies, manga comics, and pre-punk garage bands of the 60s. His latest collection of poems and prose is Future Wars published by Another New Calligraphy. He blogs HERE