In the end, silence reigned. It settled over dry fields and skeletons—trees black obelisks in risen waters. Finally, children carried their tunes hidden behind ribs like xylophones in attics, and dust rained until there were no children and every xylophone broke underheel. Blinded by grit, old women stumbled toward a past grown unyielding inside memories across valleys shadowed in shrugs and whatevers. They fell in.
I was there, on each scab of sorrow, my ovipositor stabbing cankled flesh. Maggots dripped glistening with mucous and pus, tongues splitting without spit, cunts and assholes cracked and bleeding. My Dipteran Heaven prevailed, as written: mitochondria evolved incorruptible, a comet’s panspermic gift.
Your God and gods and goddesses didn’t stand a chance. You wrought them of monkey metal; their cadmium and manganese poisoned your veins while you insisted your novels of hierarchies of goodness of godness protected you from irrelevance. There was no gentle hand on your hirsute crown.
Really, did you not believe you would die. Swimming alongside immortal Siphonophora, could you not then view your life as brief as a mayfly’s. Your twenty-four-hour news cycle the snap of a twig in an Eden seared and plowed under history.
Somewhere on the bottom of these dead oceans, life begins anew. Yes. I have learned to swim.
Debra Di Blasi is an award-winning multi-genre, multimedia writer, and visual artist. She is the author of Selling the Farm, Drought & Say What You Like; Prayers of an Accidental Nature; The Jirí Chronicles & Other Fictions; TODAY IS THE DAY THAT WILL MATTER: An Oral History of the New America: #AlternativeFictions; What the Body Requires; Ugly Town: The Movie: A Novel; and Skin of The Sun: New Writing. Her fiction has also been published in leading anthologies of innovative writing, and in prominent journals and reviews, including Boulevard, The Collagist, The Iowa Review, New Letters, Triquarterly, and Wigleaf.