Read by the author.
It’s going to be a lunar eclipse.
It’s going to be critically acclaimed and win
none of the awards.
It’s going to start as an argument
over what’s buried inside the tomb
but end in silence
over what’s discovered
beneath it.
It’s going to happen on your birthday
in front of the mailman,
while you’re receiving the letter for your sister
sent by her murderer.
It’s going to appear once a week
in your back yard
for decades
without ever speaking.
It’s going to ruin the cake
when you throw an urn full of cat ashes
in your ex-best friend’s face
at her baby shower.
Do it.
It’s going to make you get under
the table
and drink there.
It’s going to explode
right there
in the dairy aisle.
It’s going to make you laugh.
It’s going to remind you
why you can’t go in mosh pits anymore.
It’s going to freeze to death,
right there in your arms.
It’s going to make all the kids
stare out the school-bus window
and sing to you.
It’s going to rain where he is.
It’s going to be impossible for you
not to flood.
It’s going to hurt for a while.
It’s going to have to.
It’s going to make you buy all the scarves
in his girlfriend’s favorite patterns.
It’s going to happen in the wind,
during the middle of fire season,
while he’s telling you
it’s going to have to end soon.
It’s going to be hard
to end soon.
It’s going to wipe out
your entire wildlife.
It’s going to be remembered fondly, your heart
unable to keep its hands to itself.
It’s going to be a strong love,
but only parallel his lover,
never perpendicular her.
It’s going to make you unable to quell
the bad thoughts
of his dainty gull
and her inkless quill.
It’s going to bring out the best
of the worst in you.
It’s going to outlast television.
It’s going to take the shape of poems
left under the doormats
of retired generals.
It’s going to happen any day now.
It’s going to be so good,
if it doesn’t kill us first.
The way things are going,
it’s probably going
to kill us first.
It’s going to be a nightmare
when the Pope gets here.
It’s going to change everything.
It’s going to make your metaphors make you,
even if you don’t want to.
It’s going to sound like coyotes
killing behind your back,
spook like a stallion’s ghost.
It’s going to cost you.
It’s going to sound familiar:
a truck driver
humming Schubert.
It’s going to have to be removed
by a doctor.
It’s going to go into too much detail.
It’s going to use your daughter against you.
It’s going to make you eat everything
on all the plates
at all the hours.
It’s going to fill you with sorrow.
It’s going to fill you with relief.
It’s going to show you
how you got here.
It’s going to say
something cliché like,
It’s going to be okay.
It’s going to be okay.
It’s going to hit any minute now.
It’s going to leave you speechless.
It’s something you’re going
to have to carry
for the rest of your life.
It’s going to get dark soon.
It’s going to feel
like it just happened yesterday.
It’s going to sit well with no one.
It’s going to be worth it.
It’s going to build you back up.
It’s going to get better every day.
It’s never going to give up.
It’s going to belong to you.