& Not A Single Zombie Ever Shows Its Face

 

hr_the_walking_deadNot hot with blooming sores, no arms
outstretched, no undead kissers retching
blood, no sudden camera trick that zooms
a lagging thing into a bullet, newly shot,
no limbs, half-hung & trailing
fleshy gristle— but their hunger,
like a missile, everywhere,
& as the stranger in my bedroom slits
her throat— a single flick
of one fat wrist— I check the blinds

are slanted shut, once more. Perhaps
they’ve beaten in some neighbor
woman’s door, or swarmed the Pathmark
up the street, strings of barely bitten tissue
splatters plastic-shrouded meat. This earthy
moan, that rocking gait— this dreams
drags on so long, the daylight breaks
the blinds. I venture out to see
what I might find. And drive—
the zombie de rigueur. Stacked cans
of gas & food, the silence is alive,
my small town somehow open
wide, and flat, all split
& splat, a watermelon dropped on its fat
end, I’d give my right arm for a monster,
for a friend: there is nothing
but a bridge that spans a bay
of chunky ice that I must cross; as now,
from some deep place (the one that let you
love a psychopath (& it was freeing,
how it tromped on doubt, a single,
perfect stream to drown you out)) a wrath,
a wave that just can’t help it, like
a geyser pissing forth, relief, the ice
is split & tossed, a juggler
with his toys, the noise, a heave,
a glacial wail, the truth that always lies
beneath the cracked & fault-
lined wisdom that prevails, the trace.

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About evanduyne

I'm assistant professor of writing at Stockton University, where I'm also affiliated faculty in the Women's, Gender, and Sexuality Studies program. I work on Sylvia Plath, contingent faculty, and creative writing around trauma and domestic violence.
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