Storming the Gates

The candy smell of rot is in the air.
I can smell them just as they
must smell us

I hold the boy close
resting my chin on his sweaty hair
His body is shaking
I try to hug it out of him, hug the panic away

I can hear their moaning now,
their endless billowing mantra

I think of bed sheets on the line
the feeling on my fingers
as I hold them to my face
breathing in the sun dried cotton

I tell the boy
about the convoy that has flanked them
about high caliber artillery and armored battalions
about reinforced fortresses that the undead cannot overtake
where his parents sleep safely

I create a world with heroes, kingdoms, myths and eras
It took God seven days and I do it in moments
The boy must know my whispers are only lies
but I pray they comfort him

I have wondered about what lurks
behind their dried out eyes
They can track and discern
dismantle and feast
there is something going on in that cold grey slop
even if it can no longer register pain
or recognize their families

I’m not wondering about that now
The sound of planks being smashed and torn off the windows
inject both our hearts with poison
The boy grabs my ribs so hard it hurts

I hold the oily revolver to my nose, and the smell of gunpowder in the
chambers reminds me of my grandfather

I whisper to the boy about
his pipe and cardigans,
the drafting table where he designed ships for the navy
and his view of the Hudson river from his office

He had a long warm face and spoke warm things to me
and I don’t tell the boy that I’m glad
he didn’t live to see this happen to the world

The moaning is closer, more fevered
I promised the boy I would never let the zombies take him
He must know what that must mean now

The door is pulled from its hinges
and the gun fires twice