Things Seen, Things Made

A Song On the End of the World

by Czeslaw Milosz
translated by Anthony Milosz

On the day the world ends
A bee circles a clover,
A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
Happy porpoises jump in the sea,
By the rainspout young sparrows are playing
And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.

On the day the world ends
Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,
A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,
Vegetable peddlers shout in the street
And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,
The voice of a violin lasts in the air
And leads into a starry night.

And those who expected lightning and thunder
Are disappointed.
And those who expected signs and archangels’ trumps
Do not believe it is happening now.
As long as the sun and the moon are above,
As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,
As long as rosy infants are born
No one believes it is happening now.

Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet
Yet is not a prophet, for he’s much too busy,
Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:
No other end of the world will there be,
No other end of the world will there be.

To Do List
by John Fiore

It’s a lot of work,
getting ready to die.
I don’t want to leave a big mess
for my loved ones to clean up.
Sorry enough the troubles I left
in their minds, all those bad memories,
like stacks of 33s and videotapes that
got wet in the flood, warped and
smelling of rot and earwigs.
They have digital copies but can’t shed the
old records, just in case.
I go through my things and fill the boxes –
Goodwill, Give Away, Garbage.
My buddy gets this pile,
sell the gym, who wants this desk,
get tires on the car,
write a maintenance schedule,
fix the refrigerator,
where is the living will,
where is the last will and testament,
are the bank records straight,
is the bill-paying routine clear?
And then I think, ‘What about
my remains, my funeral, I don’t want
to add a gritty pile of ash and bone
to the soggy messes
in the basements of those I love,
to the warped vinyl and the moldy papers.
Will I need special handling
because of all the chemo?
What can I do to save my love
from all the damage I’ve wrought?
I don’t have time,
I need more time,
please let me pile up
a little more time.

How to Stay Alive
by Judith Strasser

Trash your cigarettes. Shun restaurants and bars
that traffic in second-hand smoke. Eat organic
and low on the food chain. Steam vegetables;
don’t grill meat. Just say “no” to marijuana, Jack
Daniels, and cocaine. Stay home: do not rent cars
at Miami’s airport, or ride the New York subways,
or dig potshards in the Negev after massacres
in Hebron. Don’t drive vans older than you are
to places you’ve never been. Always buckle your
seat belt. Have someone else strip the asbestos
from your furnace and heating pipes. Test for radon
in the basement, lead in the drinking water, cracks
in the microwave shield. Avoid electric blankets.
Use condoms, or don’t have sex. Walk to work.
Remember your sunblock. Don’t go jogging after dark.
Keep off the neighbors’ grass after they’ve sprayed
the yard. Wear a helmet when you bike. Take
a buddy to the lake. Don’t lie about your weight
to the man who adjusts your skis. Lower stress
with yoga; divorce your husband if you must. Cross
your fingers, say “Star Bright” to Venus, avoid
black cats, spit three times over your shoulder
on your thirteenth annual visit to the oncologist.

Today’s Adventures in Skin Cancer:

I had a biopsy this afternoon, which the doctor said was almost certainly benign- right after he told me that I should be totally scared of dying of melanoma. So that was awesome.

The best part was the resident who did most of the procedure. He was about my age, cute as hell and totally my type. And now the adorable Dr. Yang has seen my tits in really unflattering florescent light, while I was nervously sweating my ass off in a hospital gown and ankle socks. That really just made the whole experience so much better.

And by better, I mean mortifying.