"All There Is, Is Perfect" A Weird Catastrophe Poem

Imagining a different time than our own.

I am currently writing a forthcoming article about US-sanctioned terror to go along with a collage that examines the same issue. As you may imagine, there is a lot of material to draw from for that topic. So the research phase has been taking some time. But in the meantime, here’s a poem:

                                                All There Is, Is Perfect

          there was a woman
                who lived from 1364 to 1425
                      in central Italy.
                 she married and had three children.
             she never left the peninsula.
                  and she thought of what her
                       hometown would look like 100 years from then.
    
             and she remembered the stories
                    her grandmother would tell her
               of Visconti
               the dying world
               and a forgotten violence
                     so insatiable
                   it was beautiful.

             she thought to herself
                  that there was no better
               time to be alive

          and her father would kiss her on the forehead,
                his whiskers tickling her skin.

            and she dreamt of her children,
                    knowing all that she knew,
          and her only great sadness
                 was when there were just two of them at her bedside
              instead of all three.

          and she never thought
                 of the billions to come
            or the billions before

                  but she did remember the taste
                          of salty air, 
                  and her bare feet on hot stones.

          thinking the
          world was made
            just for her

            and knowing
             that life was
          worth itself.

             that was it for her,
          and nothing more.