the wee children screeching in the summer woods
doesn’t end under nightly nine.
that’s when the zombies
arrive. their unstuffed grunts of hilarity
in the piney poplars
precede the bonfires, prelude
the beer bottles,
and preface the singular dirty sock
found on the pathway next day
as an exclamation to the moon cabbage moon.
we’ve tried calling the cops.
they tell us to keep our children inside.
we tell them the zombies were our wee children
once
last summer.
