Volume Five, Issue 4

Ravani Grace

In Ecology

they call the flowers
that grow in the wake of devastation
which is its own kind of violence

we sterilize the space between
the dirt and our hands
our mouths are so clean
gleaming in the moonlight
moths fly to find their deaths
in our teeth, shining
like the air that shimmers
with our fossil warmth

and the ocean
with its salt
and weeds
will rise
to meet our feet
and baptize them
in consequence.


I will admit that/when drunk/I am perhaps/a tad prone to dramatics/Like when/on the smoking porch/at that party/I told Danny “revolution is my only god”/Which is not to say I don’t believe my own bullshit/Just that I am aware/of how it smells/Though Danny said/he sits in the pews/takes the eucharist/but

struggles with the faith of it all/And that is the heart of religion/isn’t it?/the struggle

I read once/that god is change/and doesn’t demand worship or love us back/And perhaps this explains my meaning/I mean/perhaps/empire will fall/and we will break a cycle/Naivety is a gift when the world is set to end/We are trapped/only/by our lack/of vision/and the men with guns/will all one day die/Even if their guns are doomed to outlive them

On the other side of apocalypse is/perhaps/a world worth living in/and/perhaps/we will find it/And eat pomegranates by moonlight and serenade each other/and/the dancing/will/of course/end/but not before our feet are ready for the light/The party is just beginning/And/of course/we will change the world/And this thing called my country will die/And we will/perhaps/live to see it/I mean to say/I worship that future/Where/like dandelions a million new worlds will bloom/beautiful weeds.

Ravani Grace: “I am poet based out of Columbus Ohio. I've performed in cities all over the Midwest and write queer anarchist poetry. Currently obsessed with the Apocalypse.”

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