A. Jenson
Possible Ending #122
Maybe I should have guessed how it would come apart
shingle by hinge by collapsing door—over the heaps of us
In late October, parents in every American city and state
were stealing wrapped candy from colorful, noisy bags
Then, by Halloween, every jack-o’-lantern had been taken
and eaten
We farmers have always believed in certain omens,
Autumn should have meant weighing down row cover
untangling lines of irrigation, checking the rain gauge
But I was thumbing apart the sunflowers, okra, field radish
all of these acres that had somehow bloomed and fruited
pithless—empty as blown eggs
Within weeks those hollow seeds became an emergency
infinite chaff, no germ, the elevators of the earth all gutted
twenty-five billion soon-to-be-starving livestock kettled
the many aquifers of our nation’s wealth and health dried up
We had no time to think, to recalibrate, to philosophize
Everywhere a choice: slaughter or starvation
Funding was split between labs and law enforcement
but we farmers with our sterile ryes and empty plums
understood it immediately—without test tubes or riot gear
There was choking, thirst, a glossy rainbow death sentence
in the clogged vasculature at every center and, of course,
sex had failed us
Years before they’d said it was raining plastic into the canals
Years ago, that the stuff was in our blood and in our fetuses
Nobody asked the stoma, the root hair, the humble xylem
clogging like neglected pipes inside a crowded house
desperate for sugar and water as it bloomed pathetically
swan white, canary yellow
As the news broke, we bought the stock we could afford to buy
trucks of brassicas, cucurbits, peas—rail cars of precious wheat
But there are more powerful farmers with more sinister crops
and the banks emptied overnight, and the seed libraries closed
There was enough for one more season—maybe two—then:
slaughter, starve
I had never seen such panic, such despair in all of my life
One night my farm was gleaned into dust as I tried to sleep
and I woke up with nothing but the slough of a locust plague
I remembered the pumpkins on my porch too late, and so
those too—collapsing, barely edible—left mouldering spots
once they were taken
Only weeks, and then empty husks, packed cattle chutes,
comprehension, horror, viruses surged and ports closed
The elderly were left alone and windows were bolted
Now I think often about the old headlines, the alarm bells
and I suppose we’ve been cannibals all this time; unhurried
and eating slowly
Call Your Representatives
Hey there
I’m calling as a constituent
my name is (your name here)
and I live in (your city of residence)
and, um
so—a few mornings ago
I opened my phone
texted my mom back (if applicable)
and logged on to TikTok (alternately: Instagram)
where I saw a…
yeah, um…
so I saw a man pull a little baby
from burning rubble
with its head severed
with—
anyway.
I know it’s an election year (if applicable)
here in (your city, state, province, etc)
but I think you should sit with that
like I am—after months of seeing
every day, basically
burned bodies and executed mothers
and zip ties cut from toddlers’ wrists
and children rotting in hospitals
where the walls are painted, painted
with their pediatricians’ blood
like—I don’t know
I guess I’m really close to losing faith
no—losing patience, maybe
with you and everything you stand for
I’m a (your professional title, noun)
and I don’t think I can (your work, verb)
any more or spend any more
or give a shit about your campaign
because…
(rest, if needed)
I’m human, you know
and I want to retain that humanity
and I think—I think you’ve lost that;
lost everything that makes humankind
worth loving.
for days after I saw what I saw
I was paralyzed
what’s a novel, right
like—what’s a lunch date,
a parking ticket
or an orgasm, or a beloved pet
a water bill, an election
when there are people like you alive
who can see what I see
and who don’t feel something critical
crumble in their insides
irreparably
forever
knowing that—in order for us
to have Memorial Day Car Sales (or equivalent)
that tiny baby was
genocided
tit for tat; a sound system for a life.
again, my name is (your name)
and I live in (your city of residence)
and because of people like you, I guess
um—I feel despair like a bone saw
and think, probably
the world can never be beautiful again
thanks.
A. Jenson is a writer, artist, and farmer whose most recent works appear in 2024 issues of Arkansas Review, Bellevue Literary Review, NYU's Caustic Frolic, and Door Is A Jar, among others. They are hard at work on a poetry manuscript and can be found on Instagram at @adotjenson.
