The last people travel like the first.
Everywhere we go mirrors the same desolation.
There is no more food.
The water that’s left is all brown
Ever since mushroom clouds imploded it has been this way.
We borrow shoes as we go.
Our feet are covered with the socks of dead men.
A heavy oatmeal-colored sky encases the sun.
The clouds are a maze of vines.
We can never tell if it’s dusk or dawn
Another county to scavenge
Another county dammed by silence.
We are grateful for a clearing of green.
We are grateful for a tin roof to block out acid rain.
We are grateful for sleep and then to dream.
We find canned food and water bottles
We decide this is the place to out-live
Another winter of endless frost and ash
Always and forever I remain a religionist woman.
I give thanks for this place and for finding you
Perfect and unblemished in Macy’s window.
You are a perfect artifact of what a man looked like.
Never a mannequin to me always a man
I unfold and rejoin your body to your head.
You smile at me and I smile back.
In this way, I am never alone.
