The ghazal is a closed poetry form; here is a brief overview.
The global temperature might go up a few more degrees before the end of time.
I tell myself, “At least we will stop treating oil fires like dogs on leashes;
they will be set free before the end of time.”
I wonder how we planned to win the war on wars when everything we have
has been built on blood and baby’s breath.
I clench my fists a little. Then I wonder if I will stop being so goddamn angry
before the end of time.
Tomorrow might bring another mini apocalypse. An “everyone will move on”
pandemic. An outbreak of normalcy, with a side of mass deaths.
If the schedule permits, someone might bury bodies in the orchard and rot
the last trees before the end of time.
Forgive me; I started getting existential again. Let me re-separate from myself
and remember
there is still so much for us to be before the end of time.
No, forgive the world; only when there are no more ways for us to wake
from all our apocalypses
will I ask for you to draw me in like the heat of a war and hold me
until the end of time.
Say, “Hazel, these tears are just how badly I wanted my life”,
and become my favorite memory before the end of time.
Previously published in Centripetal. Above photo previously published in Last Leaves.
Poetry and photography by HJH.
Hazel J. Hall 
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