“The quivers, the shakes, the iambic dread,
The anger, the insomnia, the slow tic
Of the wait, the wail, the transcribed too late,
In the manner of those who have gone before us,
Geiger counters, clacking the rising damp.”

— All the American Poets Have Titled Their New Books “The End” by Cornelius Eady

I hear a whisper that stutters, but shouts.
The same loud mouth of bad attitude neighbours
And black licorice toothaches.
My nightmare lullaby rocks me till
The quivers, the shakes, the iambic dread,

Sweep and swell with the curl of Autumn leaves,
And behind tightly laced eyes trick me, taunt me,
Blow on fire against fire; the burning face
Of natural disaster, its concrete bones built from
The anger, the insomnia, the slow tick

Of the timebomb, the one Daddy inherited,
Clothed in Sunday morning giggles and 20 bucks for a B+
Until it was easy to ignore slammed doors and smacked bottoms.
I learned to run before I walked—to be afraid
Of the wait, the wail, the transcribed too late

Inklings I scribbled into my notebooks or my wrists,
Whichever came first. Whichever stopped the ooze
Of metamorphosis that turned man into monster
And back again, the daddies of daddies who erupted violently
In the manner of those who have gone before us.

What can I say? I am my Father’s blood and bone,
The copper and marrow of his weary limbs,
The echoed cry that rips through curved spines.
Killshot! Hurricane! Atom’s original sin. Do you hear the
Geiger counters, clacking the rising damp?

By Amanda Monterroso

Amanda Monterroso — ⁠ is a 2nd-year Professional Writing Student who will try (mostly) any food at least once, has a bookshelf full of unread books, loves writing poetry, and hates writing bios. Other works include amievenhumananymore?, Breathful of a Kindling, blog posts on The Foragers of Cuisine, and By The Fire: A Dark Night coming Winter 2023. Follow her on Instagram: @quietsonginthenight