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.
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.
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Sophia Chanin (Pomona '23) enjoys hiking, poetry, and obscure German cinema.
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