REBECCA HAZELTON


APOCALYPSE, AGAIN

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.
 
 
 
 
LOVE IS LOVE IS LOVE IS LOVE

Tomorrow you are in love
                         with not being able to touch him.
Tomorrow another man will be sleeping
                         in ways I’ve never been permitted
while I lie in bed alone
                         differently positioned, like an imbecile.
If I say my dignity.
If my feelings are impure.
If they were more pure.
If all of that with both hands tied behind our backs

Love exists in a separate space
inside which are a series of functions
manipulated as the circumstances warrant
under the conditions you propose.

The indignity of having bones.
No use to you or anyone.
 
 
 
 



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