Matching the pallor of zombies, who shuffle broken and irregular

as if on the ends of puppeteer strings.

The alphas, meaning hunters, stalking rabbit and deer,

and the gatherers, plucking herbs and scavenging hygiene products,

they could read the poems printed on the roasted seaweed sheets

then eat.

A notebook of them in a pack:

lightweight, and light.

Providing protein, iodine, umami.

Maybe the useful would ponder the words,

then consume

and we would all stop,

even if for a moment,

asking what good poetry is

words perforated on such a brittle cloud that could be eaten:

stained glass already shattered.

III.

In my dreams I am granted powers to slay,

put down the dead

the way some would plant rice—

alpha male without the attitude

or entitlement—

I just want to help, I’d say.

My family would be in some far, safe place

as part of an agreement for my superheroics.

And a beautiful woman would love me

because of my humble asskickery.

You’re different, not like Chase or Donovan at all!

she’d say in admiration.

I’d pick wildflowers

and not just hygiene products,

would load a gun without it being about my penis.

As a little boy it was silver-plated armor

my dad made from foil and cardboard

and a sword with a name,

a towel for a cape,

flashlight for a lightsaber,

toilet paper tubes taped into the shape of a blaster.

I’ve always dreamed so far away from who I am.

Tonight I want to close the book on my need.

If there were a zombie apocalypse I could tell you

the best rock to sit on to see the stars,

since there would be no light pollution.

I’d salvage books, save the stale Kit Kats for when the woman I have a

crush on

had a bad day.

Unconditional love,

I wouldn’t have scavenged any condoms

because my giving is pure.

But I don’t want to be useful—

tonight I will see

if dreaming of being myself

is ever going to be enough.

IV.