Brandonville, Iowa–June 14, 2008

The rangers found the boys on their knees
under tables, ceilings, trees—
their golden scarves still knotted about their necks.
Faces covered with their hands,
hands fisted to protect
each other
when the winds hit.

Huddled and seared still
like the ashen forms of Mt. Vesuvius:
Nineteen Midwestern boys
perfectly preserved
in death masks of brushed dust.

The media said:
They did everything they were supposed to—
Boy Scouts to the end.

God sent the tornado
so the little boys could go home.

Highway Desuetude

The world ended earlier on the ride back into town;
nothing cataclysmic, really—
no bomb-blasts, puffs of smoke, melted faces.
No human dramatics, no fiery Hollywood ending.

It was just a silence that descended.

The tires on the car slipped into a nothingness;
A shell within a shell on a shell—
the highest spire unattainable.
No Rolling Stones on the radio,
no deer leaping into the path.

The headlights illuminated
dusty forests:
constant.

Nothing survived.

Still, I drove when the world ended
and my coffee grew cold.

Lauren Scotto is finishing her graduate work with New England College while residing in Wisconsin. Her work has appeared on NPR, GlimmerTrain, SP Quill, Earthwords, and in the Cedar Valley Review.