Two Poems

Creation Myth

scraping clay from creekbed with
small fingers to mold
small sculptures, three lumps—summertime snow

-men i’d make like a small god squatting in the cold water
as small insects thrummed, and small pale green leaves shone almost
translucent overhead illuminated by late-summer sun that would

cure the small men into something solid
to keep. the world seemed perfect, maybe i’m growing
old, or maybe the world has reminded me too much

of my animal mortality, but it felt like
i woke each morning to the sound of mourning

doves, and saw before sleep so many
lightning bugs rising up before my small footfalls
from dark dark grass as though the ground were a mirror

of the sky. in winter, real

snowmen were rolled and piled together, their bodies made
of water as mine mostly was—is. then they’d get knocked down,
or melt. but they’d come back. it snowed often and deeply then.



Extinction Event

extinction: the act or process of becoming extinct; a coming to an end or dying out. as in: what happened to the dinosaurs. fiery rains. unsafe earth. fun fact: it is commonly believed that dead dinosaurs are what fuel our cars, but, really, fossil fuels are mostly dead plants.

another definition of extinction: the act of extinguishing. extinguish: to put an end to or bring to an end; wipe out of existence; annihilate. as in: what happened to the car—the front gone, twisted metal bones exposed, battery thrown to the road like a torn-out heart, windshield shattered like skull on the passenger side. as in: what could have happened.

existence: continuance in being or life; life. as in: what’s preserved amidst the teeth-clamping-shut head-on impact, and after, when the air turns orange and sour with an apocalyptic powdery smoke that smells acidic and burning. as in: what we hold onto in the belly of the manmade beast, where airbags like bloated organs block all sight and sound, spare my father in the driver’s seat reaching over asking are you okay and one of us saying we have to get out. as in: what we fight for as the creature refuses to open its jaws as we claw at the sealed-tomb doors like scared animals.

mortality: the state or condition of being subject to death;mortal character, nature, or existence. as in: what i feel heavy on my chest as my father hits both palms against the glass and calls out for help and i hear, for the first time in my life, fear in his voice. as in: what i try to wrap my mind around as i realize there is a chance this purgatoric moment is the moment just before we are going to die.

time: duration regarded as belonging to the present life as distinct from the life to come or from eternity; finite duration. as in: what separates us from the dinosaurs. as in: what i feel the finite nature of as i anticipate another impact, a second meteor strike, until, with its last dying breath, the car lets my door fall open. as in: what begins again when i stand on my weak fawn legs, and tell my father that he is bleeding, then bend forward, almost kneeling, to stop the fire that quick as a gunshot took over my belly and ribs. as in: what my body feels all at once as the medic says i can’t leave the ambulance until my heart rate rises back up from the dirt, and i count each breath like borrowed time. as in: one of the concussion questions—“what year is it?” before i’m asked about medical conditions, to which i say i have none, but when i say i take Prozac, the medic says “so, mental” and writes something down, which i imagine is along the lines of “history of mental illness—expect this human to have trauma, and to write poems about it.”

sleep: to take the rest afforded by a suspension of voluntary bodily functions and the natural suspension, complete or partial, of consciousness; cease being awake. as in: a death from which one wakes up. as in: what does not come that night as i kneel over the toilet bowl and vomit bile like prayer. as in: what comes in waves at the hospital between scans. as in: what finally comes after the doctor says it is not internal bleeding, just internal bruising. as in: what my body does for 12 hours the next day. as in: what is almost impossible to do days later when it feels as if my abdominal muscles are tearing open every time i flip over in an attempt at comfort, and my mind is buzzing with flies i can’t kill. as in: what is superseded by google searches as i try to find clear-cut definitions and facts to help me understand what i’m feeling—“trauma” “shock” “intrusive memories” “flashbacks” “airbag smell”. as in: what my brain swats away while it is swarmed by all the things that could have happened. in the most replayed scenario, my father does not reach over and ask if i’m okay. i am the only survivor, the endling of this small-scale extinction event. in another ending, the can of “dead dinosaurs” from the backseat that ended up at my feet did ignite, and there was a great big beautiful brightness like the sun embracing the earth.


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Liza Rose lives in New York City. Her poetry has been featured on poets.org