Um, minus nine hundred ninety-nine?
Zombies. Those total assholes
crawling out of graves think love is
the taste of brains when the living alive know
it’s the art of a heart’s squeeze and release
and appetite to please and be pleased.
Reanimated monsters might munch
those pumping suckers, too. Odd
imaginations have said as much, though
flicks, tomes, and silly shows about
the pulsing deceased don’t do much
more than turn answers into questions. For all
anyone can know, we’re just a bunch of
undead dreams come true. So, let’s
steer clear of God’s scary acre, morning until
midnight and dusk until daybreak.
Those dearly departed bones hidden there—
cold as prehistoric stones—need nothing
from us. No flags, nor flowers. Not
shots of vodka all around. Not even
secretive teens sneaking to that creepy,
moonlit place where—among the stuff
once breathing we say farewell to forever—
they can discover that carnal human
hunger while nude as necessary, fearing
creating another life-as-they-know-it
just barely enough to protect against it.
All the gone-for-good require is the breeze
from the occasional moth flitting itty
whispers so close to complete silence
that they alone can frighten anyone into
believing in the power of total darkness.
Matt Zambito is the author of The Fantastic Congress of Oddities, and two chapbooks, Guy Talk and Checks & Balances. New poems appear in Tampa Review, Slipstream, Freshwater Literary Journal, Maudlin House, Sierra Nevada Review, and elsewhere. Originally from Niagara Falls, he has lived in Ohio, Idaho, Washington, and New York, where he now resides with his rescue dog, Sadie.
Image: Henrik L., unsplash.com
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