Sophia Holtz is a writer, performer, and sometimes-illustrator. She has performed her poetry in bars, colleges, and the occasional basement throughout the United States. Her work can be found in Consequence, Muzzle, and Neon, among others. Her Web site is sophiaholtz.com.
I spent the end of the world in Boston.
People were writing the writing on the wall
everywhere—not a bit of brick left uncovered.
Our planet was neon. Our planet was covered
in death spores you could see from space.
All of the astronauts knew not to come home
once that part started. They planted fungus farms
on moon rocks they kept in the space-station lab.
They made plans for other planets. The rest of us
were planning to wait the whole thing out. Somewhere,
we knew, a thousand jaws were hurtling towards us.
We chose to ignore this fact. It was the less stressful option.
We had dance parties on skyscraper roofs
and everyone drank too much. I was puking in a glowing alley
with half the other guests, next to a trampled paper party hat,
and a wall with THE END IS
NEAR, DEAR BEER
written in day-glo orange. I walked home
through the ocean of confetti left by the parade,
past the overturned cars and the roaming packs
of kids searching for a cellphone signal, to my house
where nobody was coming home unless we lived till morning.
The next morning, once everyone was sure they hadn’t died,
nobody claimed to remember the night before. The old folks
emerged from their fallout shelters to shovel the confetti
out of their driveways. We collected the empties into a grocery bag
and went to go find our cat, who was just hiding under the bed,
waiting till the whole human mess was done.