In the fallout shelter we press
our ears to the radio static.
We listen for the ghost of the dog
at the door. How lucky I am
to spend this doomsday with you.
Together we imagine the ruined earth,
all that space used to be trees. I dream of us
in the wild, the animals rising
from the fields, their bovine eyes sweet and dumb
and blank of revelation. We bury
our feet in the earth and open our mouths
to the snow. In my dreams this is how we enter
the kingdom. In my dreams this is how
the new world enters us. But here there is
no rapture, no meaning, only constellations of disease,
only the walls of this unfinished basement,
and you, drawn upon them in sharp relief.
When love finds us in the fallout shelter
I try not to be afraid. I shield
your body with my body. I give you
the last of the mangos and pretend
not to watch you while you eat.
Brianna Low lives in Bloomington, Indiana. She is currently an MFA candidate at Indiana University
