Polar Vortex, Jan. 2025
A poem about zombies and radiators
The radiators were whistling all night
so I dreamt of undead—all teeth and hollow eyes.
I jumped into a lake to try
to escape and had to learn
how to breathe
underwater.
My therapist suggests rewriting
my nightmares, giving them happy endings.
But I cannot think of one
where I don’t
have to fight.
They press their palms against the glass
of my sanctuary on the lakebed,
and it’s then that I realize there are others
like me,
living.
We stand together and watch it fracture,
water hissing through the cracks.