Today's poem is by Holly Karapetkova

Zombies
       

My son is afraid of zombies. He runs into my room at night. They're going to eat my brains! They'll come in through the windows while we're sleeping and eat our brains!

Don't worry, I tell him, zombies don't exist. But what if they do? They don't. But maybe they do. They don't. But maybe they do.

We walk through the house together, checking each door and window; everything's latched tight. See, I tell him, no way zombies could get in. He's not convinced. I dig out the water we brought back from the sacred spring, where pilgrims wait in line to be healed. I sprinkle it on his head, make crosses on his wrists. He's satisfied and falls asleep.

I stay awake, hear insects scraping their wings against the windows, leaves shifting beneath the empty sky. I spread the sacred water by each window, each doorstep, watching. What is there in the darkness is always looking in, dead-eyed and hankering for flesh. I watch it walk, arms raised, almost human.

Copyright © 2025 Holly Karapetkova All rights reserved
from Dear Empire
Gunpowder Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission