Marissa Glover

As the great cathedral spire collapses—

an avalanche of wood and fire, 

remember Jon Snow is not the bastard 

everyone thought he was. Remember 

the truth of the day before, before

you started guessing at the plot, 

how it all will end. No one knows

 

how things begin or end. Things grow 

until they don’t. Sometimes, we’re grateful. 

The tumor shrinks—we don’t need a reason.

We’re glad our eyes can see the trees 

take shape again. They are only birch 

and maple and pine pocked with ice. 

Not White Walkers coming in winter 

to kill us while we sleep. 

 

Or the tumor does not shrink. 

The spark eats itself full, belches 

to twice its size, burns holes 

in our prayers. With dragon breath,

doctors whisper a secret we hear in a crypt 

and carry to the surface. Soon, 

everyone will know. Not the origin 

or cause—just the epilogue,

a map to where the world is buried.