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To the Lover Claiming Global Warming is a Lie

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The sun will scrape your neck with rude fingers

and bleach your bones. Neither of us will be able to stop it.
Sweat will collect in your ribcage in the least sexy way
I’ll ever see; your polo shirt will melt and leave colored kisses on your chest,
India blue dye to match my lipstick.

The world will end in an afternoon; this I am sure of.
The sky will turn the color of a rainy teacup and all I’ll feel is softness.
Love, the air will turn to velvet around us: hazy, thick, too dense
for comfort. We’ll swipe fractions of seconds out of the air,
piece them together. Smush time like Play Doh.
You’ll think, before you realize what’s happening,
you never should have played golf that day.

Love, of course we’ll feel exceptional. Of course we’ll watch
the ink sizzle on the calendar taped to our fridge and think
that our sins could be important enough to cause this.
It’s sad how powerful we’ll feel. This must be a punishment,
you’ll mutter, a sign, and I’ll think about the Bible stories
I never read and cross myself five times for good measure.
We won’t even think to look out the windows, before the glass splits
like bubbling crystal and bark bleeds onto the floor.

I wonder what your last thoughts will be. I’ve given up on puncturing mercy
into a stainless steel soul, but, you tell me at night, you’re a Believer.
I hope I stand a chance against God when you fade.
I always told you I was selfish.
Or maybe the current of your consciousness will beat on, the errands left to run,
the paper still unfinished on your desk; maybe these will win out. You’ll mourn for
the near-empty gas tank in your truck, the basement you never truly cleaned,
the congealed pot roast waiting for redemption. You’ll look at me, for an instant,
think about how you should tell me you love me again; you’ve fallen behind on your quota.
But then our lips will fizzle and fissure and pop,
and all that will be left of us is heat.



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