I heard on a podcast that if the sun explodes, I won’t know for eight minutes.
By Amy Buechler

If this happens, I hope that before annihilation, the anger I hold toward my ex-husband has moved through me and has quit tasting bitter on my tongue. That the guilt from leaving him in a mental health crisis stops appearing like a circling vulture. In the last eight minutes, I hope the frequency of pulling my knees into my chest and weeping in the shower is nearly non-existent. I hope the suffocation of worthlessness that has come with my divorce has unraveled itself from my life. That I can honestly admit it no longer forces me to curl inside myself. I hope that the last eight minutes won’t arrive before I learn to love the mended version of myself. That I can look in the mirror and say something nice to her, like: You’ve come so far, keep going. In the last eight minutes, I want my hands in the garden with a good song playing in my headphones and my dog tired from a walk. I never want to see the last eight minutes coming, but if I do, if I happen to witness a searing, expanding bright light envelop my body—I hope it’ll feel like home. That this time, I won’t need to rise from the ashes—I’m combusting like the stars do. And there is another version of me staring into the endless, inky black galaxy wishing upon my burning body.

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Amy Buechler earned her MFA in Creative Writing from Minnesota State University, Mankato and her BFA in Creative Writing from University of North Carolina, Wilmington. During her time in Mankato, she spent two years as Head Poetry Editor of The Blue Earth Review. Her debut full-length collection of poetry, Grafting, was published by Atmosphere Press, under the name Amy Lundquist. Amy’s writing has appeared in For Women Who Roar, Eastern Iowa Review, and Charlotte Viewpoint. She currently teaches and resides in Minneapolis, MN.

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Artwork Source: “Moving On,” Merlin Flower

Artist Statement: Summer arrived and lingered on like a wayward guest. And, when you have to stay outdoors for an extended period of time, there’s a sticky desperation that clings about. ‘Moving on’ is asking the season to…move on.

Merlin Flower is an independent artist and writer.