Posthuman

The zombies arrive at the screening of your soul

Don’t look, the eggs are unhinging

with delight even as the antennae appear

Edge-shadowed from under the bunker.

In the suits of funeral participants, smudge dark

and dried up stiff around the stains, these fashions

they hedge the century by shaving more ice

into the ages by singing. These zombies are not

politely educated but they are critics, ultimately

Banging arrows into merchant dreams

with a thwock-thwock one two, clearing out helmets

and police cars just as fast as a wooly mammoth

strips out the safe harbor of the strip mall

by laying tread all down the city’s spine.

In the theater of the movie of your soul,

you are quaintly chewing on a drinking straw

as the bombing goes on, making you nervous.

Now the zombies are brewing coffee

with your brains but you have scripted a long

tunnel of escape and terror, so long

it stretches into infinity before caving in

but the zombies don’t stop squeezing through.