living room post-apocalyptic

living room post-apocalyptic

 

her hands pass the threshold, up under the back of your shirt, and you barely blink.

the shadows her fingers climb over move

out of the way

too easily.

in her living room, noticed by neither of you,

 

a douglas fir begins to grow

where dead earth lived before.

the soil rises up to meet you.

 

you both can’t feel your fingers or toes

both cringe with carried pain

hers held in her abdomen, behind her eyes,

her left shoulder

you want her to see a doctor

yours in the muscles of your back, each day compounding upon themselves,

paper crunched into the form of a human body

 

you want her palms to rest, just for one second.

one moment longer in that beautiful empty calm,

cars start outside,

west wing reruns float on from the tv,

the kettle never makes a noise because she knows

when the water’s ready

and so do you

you live in this house with her.

the day rolls toward midnight, finally,

and you swear it was absolutely silent

 

except for the small sound of her body settling in

next to yours.

 

By Zoë Brouns.

Zoë Brouns is a UC Berkeley graduate and ‘proud queer woman’ currently living and working in St. Louis, MO. You can find her on Twitter at @alonelysloth and some of her other work at sea foam mag and Vagabond City LitShe tends to take inspiration from the world around her, be it moments grand or deemed insignificant, as well as personal experiences/relationships.