The World Keeps Ending, and the World Goes On

by Franny Choi

Am I greedy for comfort if I ask you not to kill my friends—if I beg you to press your heel against my throat—please, not enough to ruin me, but just so—just so I can almost see your face—

I know I should want to be torn open by the failures of hope, but here’s what I want: a tight circle around everyone I love; a stove that doesn’t burn.

Somewhere in a prior world, a woman with my face is scraping the seeds from an unborn hell.

She is cranking open modernity’s throat, wrenching her arc from its scat. She is a woman who can hack an impossible morning into water, bean paste, bitter leaves,

Every day of my life has been something other than my last. Every day, an extinction misfires, and I put it to work.

Imagine a version where Black children, too, can be children, make mistakes, still anticipate grace.