A Nuclear Winter’s Carol By Marcie Lynn Tentchoff

Each winter evening finds us
locked tight within stout walls —
our summer days behind us,
we wish we’d decked our halls
with wood we might be burning,
with food to keep us fed,
with weapons fit for turning
the ranks of rank undead.

God rest ye, grim cadavers
who shamble to and fro,
for those who seek to eat us
were folk we used to know.

Outside the gales rise stronger,
the sky’s a sea of white,
our food won’t stretch much longer,
our wood won’t last the night,
so mark my footsteps boldly  
where frost and corpses rule,
and winter winds blow coldly,
we go to gather fuel.

The holly and the ivy
now never more will grow,
but we’ll go hunting zombies
through drifts of endless snow.


(First published in Murky Depths)


Marcie Lynn Tentchoff is a poet/writer/editor from the west coast of Canada, where she lives with her family, both furry and less so.  Some residents of her thickly wooded home are breathing and tangible, while others lie dreaming, haunting both the land and those who live there.


Published 12/5/19