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At the End of Everything

At the end of everything,

you realize there are a great many more things

to end, and you have, in fact, walked

from this ending into another, have

always been walking, tripping down

a staircase of time on the ends

of your numb little legs. Every step

seems like the last step, the way

every freckle seems like cancer,

the way every blackbird

seems crow-like, every crow

ravenesque. You don’t know

what you would do with wings

that large and darkling,

with a real Nevermore. Still,

life is a poetry book of haiku,

just one motion, just

three lines, and the page is ripped

out before you can

count the syllables,

before you can comprehend

that here you are, at

the next poem,

where you can find something like half a billion

endings, most of them your cells,

kicking tiny cellular buckets, completely unaware

of letters ending words ending lines

and poems ending, sentences

crashing to a stop, the period

like a dead fly on a dead

body: bloodless, breathless,

ink dried and corpse kexy

(a dead adjective

meaning withered and brittle, invented

two century-endings ago).

Even being born

must have felt an ending,

sublime and absolute. Imagine—

air thinning, light pouring in

as warmth pours out. Lungs

ripped open. Intestine

ripped away. Weight so cataclysmic

your head contorts on your neck.

When you first throw wide your mouth,

you think you will cry

forever. Oh, little darling,

it’s all endings from here.


Poet Aimee Lowenstern
Aimee Lowenstern

Aimee Lowenstern (she/her) is a twenty-five year old poet living in America. She has cerebral palsy and a chihuahua. Her work can be found in several publications, including Fifth Wheel Press and The Banshee Journal.


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