After the Apocalypse, I Live in a Cabin in the Woods SOPHIA CHANIN
One In the cold morning dark I split wood with the axe you taught me to use. I will use it to light a fire, cook my oats, seal in the holy energy. Lacking the bustle of human company I have become reclusive, quiet as a mouse, that’s how my mother used to describe me. I speak only when praying, my legs open and straddling the river, nature goddess that I am. I find remnants of your voice in smoky leaves dangling from spiderwebs on the path I traverse every day to fetch water. I find spiders fat as open palms. Two When we were small and winter storms dismantled the power grid, crash crash, Mother instructed us to fetch water from the stream. Hansel and Gretel, she called us, her two baby munchkins. Once I saw a frog on the bank, but he slipped into the water before I could kiss him. White suburbia, a dreamland, an evil hallucination. How unprepared we were.
30 • spring 2021
