Delilah by Brianna Albers

When the apocalypse comes, Jesus asks you / to dinner. Jesus is the son / of your mother’s best friend.
Naturally, / you cannot say no. He’s five minutes late / in picking you up, bites his thumb in /
supplication, and you want to press him / against the leather seats of Jesus’ dad’s Cadillac. / You’ve been
on worse dates. The company’s / decent, the sex phenomenal, except there is no / sex and you’re left
wondering why you thought / there would be. This is not / how you pictured the end of the world. /
Somewhere, / a door slams. Your neighbors are filing / for divorce. Jesus walks you to your door / with
his hand above your waist. He kisses you / and time unravels, a ball of yarn / torn between opposing
knitting needles. Jesus tastes like crabapples / and the final stanza / of that one hymn. God calls, / asks
Jesus when he’ll be home. / The sky is / orange. At the end of your mother’s driveway, / your mother’s
best friend’s son’s car radio / narrates the coming of the savior: / This is Delilah. Avert thy mortal / eyes.





Brianna Albers is a poet, writer, and storyteller, located in the Minneapolis suburbs. A student at University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, she is currently studying psychology and the philosophy of literature. While her work can be found in The James Franco Review, Transcendence Magazine, and Winter Tangerine, among others, she is currently compiling a collection of her poetry; her début chapbook is forthcoming, hopefully. Her fingers are crossed.

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