My littlest sister braids her Barbie’s hair
in the middle of her room, and brings
some cogent questions: I understand
the sun will burn out, but I need to know
what’ll happen to our vampires. When sand
vitrifies to glass during the final obliteration,
will they puff to dust or whisper away
over an unknown horizon? Her fingers stay;
busy with Saran strands. Does anyone
get to escape the apocalypse?
Her inquisition strikes me too stout
a subject for Sunday, then remember
Armageddon is still taught in Bible study.
She was born the last day of one long b’ak’tun,
this morrow burrowed into a brand new cycle
seeking novelty through timewave zero.
Her obsession with endings isn’t a surprise
with parting being such a sweet sorrow.
My toes ache where the saudade lives
and take time to touch her forehead with mine.
How long will she carry me in her soles
after my own uncovering?
I tie off Barbie’s fishtail because her fingers
aren’t dexterous, then tell her that the sun will
swallow us whole, vampires and all.