ON OUR LAST NIGHT TOGETHER, SHE TOLD ME THIS - John Grey

She's telling me what would happen

if the sun went out

just like this camp-fire.

There'd be layers of extinction

with human life somewhere

in the middle.

The plants would go first,

then the animals that eat the plants,

then the ones who eat the animals.

And last, the ones who eat those ones.

She's the champion of

what I never want to hear.

She cuddles close.

For eight minutes everything

would be the same, she says,

because that's how long it takes

for light to get here.

Of course, the air would

gradually cool.

She's talking with her

warm hands by this.

The planets would flick off

in succession like Christmas bulbs in January.

Each kiss represents

the stars, now brighter

in the sky for lack of competition.

Each speculation

wipes her moisture from my cheek.

Of course, there'd still

be heat from the earth's interior.

She stares at my chest

as she says this.

But after a long pause,

she adds...that wouldn't be enough.

There'd be a stillness

like you could never imagine.

No winds, no waves.

The world would be

like your bedroom at night.

The ocean like the cold sheets

you sink your face into.

Originally published by Cold Mountain Review, April 2015

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and  “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.