When the Seraphs Didn’t Come
The seraphs did not come our aid
When the dam came crashing down, and we
Lost everything man had ever made.
That day they told us we were finally free.
Heaven’s reign came now to its end –
Hard to worship what cannot be seen –
As the ashes of many a dear old friend
Came to rest upon what could have been.
F: You know I spent a few years in Big Sky Country?
C: The sky is the same size everywhere you go
F: It didn’t use to be
There’s no point now in asking why some
Did not burn in the conflagrations we set,
Now those of us who refused to succumb
Are the only poor bastards left to be met.
Food won’t grow so it must be found,
Forcing our feet to keep to the path.
Any other cockroach people that come around,
Cannot be trusted – must be met with wrath.
F: We used to grow raspberries here
C: What’s a raspberry?
F: Nevermind
Ash and dust, that disappointing detritus, is all
That is found by rusted shovels digging deep
Beneath what once would have been earth in the fall –
That season when leaves ought to have been in a heap.
Nothing unearthed is no surprise –
We only hoped that waters might flow –
But deep as we dig we won’t find that prize,
Not here where ash tries to imitate snow.
F: The last well will be empty soon
C: What do you mean? The wells went dry ages ago
F: I meant the very last one, wherever it is
Men lie in wait along the roads, breath
Held steady as a blade in a barber’s hand.
Avoid the highway till you wish for death,
The only relief left in this godforsaken land.
They’ll rob you blind, to the very last drop,
And feel no pity for any poor soul who may plead
For a hint of mercy in a place with no crop –
Food is scarce, on you instead they will feed.
F: We’ll go through the woods
C: The road would be quicker
F: We don’t have that many bullets left
Birdsong, that sweet melody of flight,
That once we heard on a chilly spring morning
Has ceased its ringing through skies once bright –
Now those sharp whistles signal only warning.
The many vibrant shades of deep and shining green –
That belonged to the trees and the fern and the moss –
Have fled the forest, and all that’s left to be seen
Are the burnt grayscale shapes of our greatest loss.
F: These woods used to be so beautiful, I’d just sit here for hours
C: You’ve been sitting there for hours right now
F: Now I’m in mourning, kid
We thought we knew what true hunger meant,
When sleep for dinner was a childhood norm,
We know better now, lying in a torn tarp tent
On nights when we’d do anything just to be warm.
Some days it’s hard not to let the mind drift
To thoughts better left buried down deep:
Wondering if death by fire was actually a gift,
And if so, what’s left for us to do now but weep?
F: Sometimes I wish we hadn’t survived the bombs
C: I don’t want to be dead
F: I know, but that would’ve been so much easier
We become walking skeletons during those
Threadbare months spent limping through fall.
A ghost of a person in loose-hanging clothes
Is all that is left at the end of it all.
One day it’s too cold to keep walking,
The air, already poisonous, has gained
A new kind of bite that prevents even talking
What little strength we had left then waned.
F: We’ll hole up here for as long as we can
C: We don’t have enough food to last very long
F: I know, but the cold out there will kill us
Starvation turns out to be rather boring,
Not much to do but sit on the ground –
Listen for the cease of the child’s snoring,
Know yet another morning has rolled around.
Month eighteen, week two, day seven:
The child’s weak heart pumps its last.
You hope for their sake that there is a heaven,
But feel that it too burned up in the blast.
F: Do I just… leave you here?
C:
F: I’m sorry.
Decide to play roulette tonight –
Not like you have anything left to lose –
You are tired of the constant fight,
Barely worth the time it takes to bruise.
You leave a note, for old times sake,
Even knowing it will never be read.
Write out every single moment of heartbreak,
Know it’ll be all that’s left when you’re dead.
Born and raised in the Pacific Northwest, Abigail McGuire is now a fourth year undergraduate student of literature at Montana State University.