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.

Three If someone visits me, I will have to kill them, either with poisonous nettles I’ve collected for this purpose (a gentle approach) or my axe (for the determined ones). I am not afraid of the deed, only of the prospect that bears will detect the rotting carcass and come visit me, too. That, I wouldn’t mind. I could use a tall friend these days. Or a shawl. Four It was a simple transition to the forest. All I needed was my body.

Lucky me, I still had one. (Others had elected the brain-in-jar experiment. Theoretical folly. We did not understand the mind.) Technology was never my favorite, I preferred mountain lions and moss. Sometimes I imagine your remains, all of you shattered on the laboratory floor, pink tissue bleeding into formaldehyde, grass reclaiming it all. Poor child, I say, though you were not a child. Six As I fall asleep I remember how I felt before, in life’s speech and constant death. Then I consider how I am now, silent, amongst purple stars, breathing without oxygen, without the need for words. I’m glad it happened.