After us, Lord, that kudzu’s a-coming.
A great green wave gonna feast on our graves,
flood the highways, get blind drunk and glutted
on our scratches in the dirt. It was good
for a while though, shacked up in our lovers
mesh tent, loose, on the lam, the blood-hungry

mosquitoes knocking, the veggies hungry
to swallow us up. End time’s a-coming.
The bloodhounds out for murderous lovers.
After us, the whole world one long lush grave,
vines for veins, and no one to say it’s good,
our throats compost, flowers for gutturals.

Flashes of eloquence, we knelt, gutted
trout by streams, saying gilt-tongued grace, hungry
as animals, as bible salesmen. Good
Lord, like wildfire that green’s a-coming,
coming-for-to-carry us to our graves,
the fallow field, the seed’s long-lost lover.

I tried for elegy, my basil-eyed love,
to be read the night you leave me gutted,
my fat tomato heart fallen, a grave
man indeed. The burning world’s hungry
for us to leave, for that all-a-coming
canopy, that raw, all-consuming god.

Honey, apocalypse ain’t the end. Good
endings swing a scythe, unearth new lovers,
buried gardens. Nature’s knight’s a-coming,
riding our own fire right toward us, glutted
on butter and bourbon and gas, hungry
to save his beloved, lay us in our graves.

God, let us bless the earth with our graves,
make marigolds bloom from bone-dust, make good
of our grand Gomorrah days. How hungry
have we been? A moody, mismatched lover
who refuses to give up, dream-glutted
on tomorrow, flesh forever a-coming.

Lord, let us still be hungry in our graves.
Let what’s a-coming come for good, the earth
its own beloved, glutted after we’re gone.


Greg Emilio