Two Poems

My First Zombie

Every night, it wanders up the dirt road winding
above my old hometown. My family is inside
with my sick mother, who rests in a bed
in a strange new house and I wait in the garage
with a machete—like the one my father
gave me when I turned 18.
In the driveway, the skeletal corpse claws forward
singing out its appetite, I meet it with the simple rule
of lose the head and it’s dead
with one surprising swing.
Ligaments severed and no blood,
body separates. I relax until head reattaches
and the zombie rises to attack again.
I repeat the ritual of decapitation
too many times and the head always
reattaches. The last time, hands trembling,
I pick up the head that’s staring, breathing,
biting air. I feel its absent soul. I cradle the heavy head,
bringing it away from my family
into the eternal woods and lose myself in the pounding heart
that throttles dream. Always waking up to turn on
each light in the house, to open every door,
to startle my mother with phone calls
about wicked weather and lurking questions
about remission, examinations, and her old lamp
with an orange shade
that she does not remember as well as I do.

Passive Aggressive

If I weren’t a nice guy, I would trip people
in line at the bank, slap a cell phone
out of someone’s hands, provoke strangers
to pummel me for a few good licks,
refuse to leave a tip for a bitchy waitress,
and let my shadow side parade
the streets in daylight instead.
I’m not afraid to bounce the house awake
in howling tears and inflict atrocities on innocent furniture.
Even at my angriest, I only threaten to leave
dishes in the sink for days, to let the trash stink,
to refuse eye contact, and stop
saying “please” or “thank you”
and then feel guilty enough
to end up wishing all of you the best.