After the Apocalypse by Alison McBain

Concrete precipitates out of freeway overpasses,
creating sand dunes from
eroding metal shells
of forgotten transportation.
Listen to the khamsin howl–
desert grit rolling down, breaking
levers, gears, pitted hulls
abandoned before the winds reversed.
See with ancient tar eyes
bones sunken beneath a hard and frozen crust,
and the sudden cascade–
disintegration released in water,
ticking drops of passage,
portals of rainfall,
a reckoning focused on renewal–
each seed, desire
sprawled through a waste of human discards.
Between rotted tire treads,
greenness yawns a leafy mouth,
stretching as he wakes
and climbs from brown mother,
the shadows of defeat
cast behind.
Light filters through the flood, coaxing
to the heights of men–
and his siblings touch the sun.

Alison McBain lives in Connecticut with her husband and two daughters. She has poetry published/forthcoming in Abyss & Apex, The Gunpowder Review, and the anthologies Blood on the Floor and Our World of Horror. When not obsessing over who’s going to bite the big one next on The Walking Dead, she practices origami meditation and draws all over the walls of her house with the enthusiastic help of her kids. You can chat with her at @AlisonMcBain or

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