It is the color of a darkened room, where
the TV screen light streams over your face. I catch
you, in the corner of my eye, as you mouth the lines
to "Dawn of the Dead." You know all
of Romero's movies by heart, have a plan
for what to do in case zombies ever really attack Pittsburgh.
You've written it down on graph paper,
in red pen. It's in your briefcase, the one with a broken
lock that you have to break into with a butter knife.

I imagine watching from our second story, cut off
from the world. Below us, the mass
of dead bodies, slow like cold
maple syrup. Sticky with the gore of intestines,
brains. I like the idea of only us
surviving. Never having to leave
the house. When it all begins,
I will remember what you've told me
four thousand times:
destroy the staircase first,
block the door.
Always aim for the head.

-- Christina Murdock