bunker

for us, there is no bunker. 
i have had neighbors
who dig graves for themselves.
fill them with canned meat. 
my first husband loved spam.
he talked to it like an unborn limb.
if i had a place to hoard my future
i would probably collect cereal.
i think the end times will require
much more sugar than we assume.
something to ring the pain
like a bell. something to remind me
of when i was a child & asked 
for extra mayonnaise on my hoagies
my father is building
a garage where he can go to scream.
he does not say that's what it will be for
but i know him & i know
the kinds of horrors he carries. 
there are rumors online that 
the rich already have their 
end times plans. we do not exist 
in those plans. i take comfort in knowing
that i am only alive because
the maps of rich people failed. 
our eggs were supposed to be rosary beads
in the dirt. did you know if you 
put your ear to the frozen earth,
you can hear the past. it is wide 
& singing. to me it usually sounds
like a flock of trumpets trying 
to come home. my aunt is dying 
& she keeps saying, "i want to go home."
my father doesn't understand.
he tells her, "you are home." the thing
about the bunker is that it is never
a home. instead, it is the reservoir 
that does not believe in the future.
i do not build a bunker. we eat canned beans
& laugh by the fireplace. i tell my father,
"just let her know she'll be home soon."