It’s highschool, and we’re stoned and playing hide and seek in the dark. We don’t know the rules.

We’re running from shadows—and cars, and people on porches, and demons with rough hands and sharp teeth—and so I pull you into the backyard, and to the playhouse by the tree.

I scramble up the ladder, and you lag behind.

I scramble up, and suddenly I’m thirteen and in church.

(Because, look! There’s the stained glass windows! Here’s all that shame! Here’s all that history! And, Jesus, I bet it’s been years since someone’s last sat here—prayed here—amongst these invisible pews.)

…Hail, Mary,

Hail, Mary…

Quietly, I move to clear the entryway.

…Hail, Mary,

full of grace…

You: you’re climbing in after me, whispering curses.

Me: I’m making a list of all the things I could do to you.

(And it’s filthy, what I’m thinking. I’m a serial killer in a mound of beating hearts, babe.)

But in a way, it all sounds like poetry. Don’t you think?

Or maybe like a storybook: A princess. A lover. All this poison, and war, and fire. This tabernacle tower, this teeny fortress of ours.

…Hail, Mary, full of grace,

the Lord is with thee…

I should’ve listened when you said ‘a playhouse is only a home if you’re a wasp or a snake.’ But instead I pulled a stick from a tree and deemed it ‘Excalibur.’

“Don’t you worry, my love,” I said.

(I had to appease the readers, you understand.)

“I’m planning a siege. We can be snakes too.”

…the Lord is with thee…

blessed art thou amongst women…

and blessed is the fruit of thy womb…

Now we’re here—and the wind is howling—and you’re pulling yourself into my lap, leaning against my chest to stay out of sight.

And for a second I’m choking, but then I’m laughing, because listen: they’re all in the yard now. They’re calling our names.

And so your hands come up to cover my mouth—and my hands come up to cover your wrists, where your glow-stick bracelets are shining like a flare on the horizon—And for a second, the whole world is ending.

Flames are licking thick stripes up the walls, all the way to those arched windows; the blue and yellow ones with the thin plastic panes.

…and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus,

Holy Mary, mother of god…

But, then they‘re gone.

You pull away from where my mouth sits beneath your palms, open and waiting; and I tell you about my dreams, the ones that feel like whole lifetimes uninhabited. Those vital ones.

I make jokes—that are not jokes—and you don’t understand them.

When we’re quiet, you tell me you feel thirteen again. I point at the windows behind you.

“Look at those,” I say. “It’s like a little chapel, isn’t it?”

…Holy Mary,

“Look at us,” you say. “We’re like a little wedding, aren’t we?”

And with that we’re back at the end of the world, but this time no one is here to see it. There’s no flame, no cajolers. This time, we’re floating up to the sun, gravity abandoned, galaxies uprooted. We’re floating up to the sun.

You ask me if I think you’re evil–you’re joking, but you’re not, I get it–and the answer is yes.

(But I’d follow you into the jaws of the cosmos anyway. Look up.)

…Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us…

“Why?” You ask.

We’re whispering against the whipping wind, and there’s a million things I could say.

“You’re a tease” is what I settle on.

And it feels like a dare on the way out, but maybe you don’t catch it. And it feels like the Earth shakes as I move my eyes across your face, but maybe you don’t catch that either, because you’re still scanning for threats down on the shrinking lawn below.

You grin, though. Don’t think I miss that.

(We’re shining in dollar-store glowlight, baby. Trust me, we’re robed in red.)

…Holy Mary, mother of God,

pray for us sinners…

You’re speaking. I’m answering you. It’s all forgotten. We’re in the stars now. At some point you lean forward. You’re craning your neck, looking down at the ground again.

Someone—some voice—asks to kiss your neck then, and I’m scandalized until I feel that my lips are the ones moving, my hands the ones trembling at your waist, holding you in place. You say yes, and you mean it, but you’re surprised when I do it; when it’s real; when I’m there all at once and I’m meaning it more.

But someone is playing their Silvertone on the front porch. Someone’s throwing beer cans. Someone’s singing happy birthday. They’re calling our names.

We’re still tangled. Your eyes are red like fire, red like sin. Someone—some voice—is talking about sex, and I’m furious until I see that your lips are the ones moving. (Joking, but not joking. I get it.)

We laugh. Because really there’s nothing else to do when you’re stoned, seventeen, and the world is ending outside your door. My lips haven’t forgotten about the crook of your neck yet, I’m still there, I’m still exploring, I still mean it, even if you’re still insistent on joking.

…pray for us sinners,

now and at the hour of our death…

The little church quivers in the wind. I am filled with fury.

…at the hour of our death…

The fire is back. It’s eating at the foundations. It’s pouring in through the windows. We’re falling from the sky now.

…at the hour of our death…

They’re calling our names.

“The back is off limits,’ they call, ‘if that’s where you both are!’

…at the hour of our death…

(“It’s off limits!”) They say, voices like shrieking flame, like galaxies uprooted. (“It’s full of wasps and snakes!”)

The fire curls at the corners of our vision, and my battling-stick lays forgotten by the ladder. When the ground opens up, you jump into it.

Finally, I close my eyes.

(Our lips have gone black.)

(Your sword’s stuck in my side, love.)

(The kingdom’s fallen.)

Amen.