Cell
by Daisy Bassen
It’s not the end of the world,
She always says, removing
herself
From conversations like the
sparrow
Alights from the branch,
conclusively.
Except it must be, sometime,
the end
Of the world. It has been
already, only ask
The coelacanth, the survivor
of thousands
Who were the last. This place
is littered
With fossils and riverbeds run
dry,
Shipwrecks, chests of coins in
currency
That won’t buy a stick of gum,
As if you could still buy it
that way, stacked
Like a Japanese sensu, slatted with ivory.
It’s the end of the world
every day,
But who’d trouble herself to
say anything?
No one will listen or worse,
they will,
Cassandra all over again.
Mockery, crude
Dirty, and for what? Being
true doesn’t make it
The truth. The phone in her
hand is a terror,
A tether, it’s simple as a
spoon.
It’s the consequence of the
sly devising
That lets me watch my
grandmother flickering
As a young girl, kissing her
mother good morning.
She played the upright piano
like the one in my house.
A world that should begin to
be beyond
Remembering. The streets now
are filled
With people walking, their
ears stuffed like olives,
Listening, listening. Perhaps
they will grow
A third eyelid, like a lizard,
to let them see
What they hear. We’re not sure
what comes next
But it will. We won’t. My
grandmother’s hands
Played a scale, I recognize
that; I know the interval
Of the notes, how to sing it,
how it climbs away.
* * * * *
Daisy Bassen is a poet and practicing physician who graduated from
Princeton University’s Creative Writing Program and completed her medical
training at The University of Rochester and Brown. Her work has been published
in Oberon, McSweeney’s, and PANK among other journals. She was
the winner of the So to Speak 2019 Poetry Contest, the 2019 ILDS White Mice
Contest and the 2020 Beullah Rose Poetry Prize. She was doubly nominated for
the 2019 Best of the Net Anthology and for a 2019 and 2020 Pushcart Prize. She
lives in Rhode Island with her family.
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