a poem

18 May 2012

This is taken, completely without permission, from Aim for the Head: An Anthology of Zombie Poetry.

Welcome Home, You Said
By Ronnie Stephens

I miss your knee in my ribs when I'm sleeping
and the charred waffles wafting in on Saturdays
with the tiny hymn of our daughter mixing bowl
after bowl of batter. I cannot wait to see you.

They are wrong about us, you know. We are not
dead. Hunger has hijacked our limbs.

Do you know what it is to kill against your will,
to recognize the flowers outside your home
and the door splintered open with a cannibal rage
that is not your own?

You didn't even ask why I did it.
Just held our daughter tight against your chest
and smiled. And I wish my hands
were still my hands, my eyes any eyes but mine.

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