wildscape. literary journal

Last Will and Testament
by Alicia Hoffman

Never in my life have I thought of the end
as anything other than a gray slab of granite

over Lake Ontario. Sisyphus said he pushed 
until the stone fell back to its beginning and

I think beginnings are a good way to start. 
Never in my life have I climbed Machu Picchu

but I’ve given the ghost to the grave. A child, 
I traced the lichen and remembered the name. 

I’ve pushed my own child into the pit, pronounced
and sacrificial. I’ve known the many tongues

of god. I’ve heard them whispering in the back
yard of late spring after a long year is gone.  

Squirrel. Cardinal. Pill bug. Earthworm. Here, 
the ants say, as they carry the load of the heavy leaf

into their underground castle, is the secret of all hearts. 
Here is the grain of sand. The brittle twig. Each 

blade of grass, an offering. Books and papers, tunnel
and nest. To the great gaseous overheads, a second 

of light and then the end. I want to give you the day 
I woke up early and the clouds were my own anxiety

dissipating. What a gift. To know the synonyms 
of this gorgeous hallowing, this open vein of living. 

about the author // Alicia Hoffman