A Poem By Erin Belieu

by Mark Bibbins, Editor

Ars Poetica for the Future

The Rapture came
and went without incident,

but I put off folding my laundry,
just in case.

Also, from my inbox this morning,
subject header

“Lesbian Torture Camps.”
The mind ricochets like a fly —

is there anything left
for people to do to people?

Meanwhile, my boyfriend
looks forward to the apocalypse

like a retirement party
he pretends he won’t be

attending, like those idiots
in the movies who climb the highest

building, wanting to be the first ones
to welcome the spaceship. In this world,

I’ve given up sleep for dreaming
and art is still our only flying car,

but I can’t recall when anticipation
became the substitute for hope.

Recently, C. said “Now we begin
the poems of our Great Middle Period.”

I imagine digging a series of small
holes, burying poems in Ziploc

baggies. I imagine them as baby teeth
knocked from the present’s mouth.

Erin Belieu’s most recent book of poems is Black Box, from Copper Canyon Press. She directs the Creative Writing Program at Florida State University, and is a co-founder and co-director of VIDA: Women in Literary Arts.

Oh the joys and delights that await you right here, in The Poetry Section’s vast archive! What a wonderful time to be alive!

You may contact the editor at [email protected].