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Alpha or Omega
By Beth Gordon
Editor's Note: This was previously published in Suisun Valley Review, Spring 2017.
When it arrives,
in silent pods, groaning starships, indecipherable syllables, we,
the grief-stricken, silent-tongued, unloosened from rock and displaced,
will become chosen, time-travelers, ambassadors of all things
homo sapiens. While the once-
blessed throw themselves off skyscrapers, in front of wayward
trains, supplicate before disgraced priests, retreat to rat-ridden cellars,
we will speak in tongues, in dead languages, in Gregorian chants,
in Morse code. Dash
dot dot dash dash dot. The griefless will ignite in mass self-
immolations, feed their children manufactured poison, expand their arsenals.
But we, we have no fear, no need of inorganic protective clothing,
WWI-era gas masks,
no voodoo-induced comas, we will not raid the graveyards. Our souls
are finely tuned to the slightest change in gravity, the leaving of each unspoken
life. We are the keepers of emergency-room stories. We welcome
with heart-crushed peace.