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All The Dead Are Here - Pete Bevan's zombie tales collection

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WARNING: Stories on this site may contain mature language and situations, and may be inappropriate for readers under the age of 18.

August 23, 2007  Poetry   Tags: ,   

Grandmother says
they used to bury them.
Whole gardens of them, marked with stones,
pretty trees trimmed into shapes
and little pots for flowers.
She says that there was room
for everyone, and time
for them to go in, one by one.
People would even stand and watch.
Just like at a birthday party,
when the candles are about to go out.
Grandmother says
they didn’t use to have
burn nights, when the grownups
build the bonfire and trucks bring loads
and loads to drop
until the smoke covers up the stars.
They didn’t use to eat skull cookies
or bake bone bread, or dance in the ashes.
Not around here, anyway, she says.
Grandmother shrugs
when I ask if she liked the way
that things used to be better than now.
I wasn’t paying attention, she says.
Things are what they are.
Then she gives me a kiss,
and I sit in her lap
and we watch the fire burn all the way down.


  1. I like your use of descriptions here. the smoke covering the stars is simple and gives the reader the chance to draw their own pictures.

    I assume that the skill cookies and bone bread are indications at how society and culture has changed since the WWZ. as writers we often miss the long reaching effects of events such as post-WWZ halloween or other remembereances that would have come out of the panic, et al.


    Comment by Andrew Burke on August 29, 2007 @ 11:49 pm

  2. I love the simplicity of this poem. It implies tragedy, resilience, hope and horror … all without (proverbially) raising its voice.

    Nicely done.

    Comment by zombob on August 6, 2010 @ 11:13 am

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