Like how high banjo trills make me go electric.
Like how charity. Like how gold.
Like I’d like to take you in & feed you a little
sweet milk. Like you’d mind, but I’m, like,
so tired of honesty like California fault lines.
Like how this is the big moment. The time of it.
And I’m ready now for the next time.
Like how cuteness rules the dating quadrants.
Like how sexy. Like when I say you look good
in white linen I mean sheets. Like I’d like to
rob your booty bank. Like how I’d take my
winnings to the grave.
Betsy Wheeler "Non-Sonnet for Telling You Everything"
At first, it’s nothing but killing, and taking,
but once fucking enters, barter comes in,
and then other acts for other objects, and my husband
assures me that in this new economy he’ll be in demand
as a man who can throw a pot, because eventually,
we will want to eat things out of containers again,
and not just put our jaws to a fresh kill,
we’ll cook again, which will remind us
how we are more than the lion faces we wear,
and not immediately, but eventually,
we might even want a little beauty, and he can make that, too.
Because my husband loves me, he promises he will keep me
in the back of his tent once my glasses break, which they will,
though I’ll wear them for years past their prescription and stare
through the star pattern on the left eye, where a marauder clubbed me
upside the temple. He promises he will keep me in the back of his tent
and I can wedge clay, or pick through lentils, if there are lentils,
that might be too advanced, agriculturally, I just don’t know
if I can be trusted with a knife to gut animals I can’t see,
and anyway, it’s in the tent he keeps me, and that’s a lot of blood.
There’s no fix for some things.
We talk about this at parties. We are forming plans.
Our friend Ryan envisions zombies as what brings us all down.
He advocates a Home Depot as base of operations,
because there are forklifts, fencing, and generators.
You could build a sort of life out of zip ties and American know-how.
Still, I think it’s more likely my husband will be running
through the forest, if we can find a forest,
and that his feet will be soundless, and the deer
will just walk up to him, meekly, and let him slit their throats,
because we will be hungry, and this is what happens
to meek things when there is no future.