Dating in the Apocalypse Bunker

By

You take the lamp with your last battery
and meet me at the radios, where it’s quiet,
and we can be alone. I like how the light dims
and flickers, the way it plays across the steel.
I like how we can’t see the sand in the air.
You hold my gloved hand in your gloved hand
and we walk the hydroponic halls. I love you
because your eyes are green, because we eat
protein cans and you tell me about birds,
how your dad still has grass in his vault.
And we’re dressed to the nines, in our cleanest
boots, the dust scrubbed from our tanks
until they gleam. Our utility suits are beeping
beneath our helmet read-outs, but no longer
are we clumsy, like those men who fled to Mars.
And we go not to the movies but to the oxygen
chambers, where we crouch low, lean close
to a vent. You shed your gear first, lips dry
and desert-cracked, and we share that same
recycled air, press our mouths against the wall,
breathe so deeply we see stars.

Kristen Mears

Kristen Mears is a freelance writer and editor based in the Surrey Hills. She recently graduated from the University of Kent, where she completed a Masters in Creative Writing at the Paris School of Arts and Culture. There, she wrote a portfolio of poetry about family, love, and travel (with a particular fondness for sonnets). Her other passions include climbing, music, and collecting fountain pens. She is currently working on her debut poetry collection and also offers editing and critique services on Fiverr. More of her work can be found on her website at www.kristenmears.co.uk. Some of her latest poetry has won or been shortlisted in awards such as the Elmbridge Literary Competition, the Plough Prize, the Wigtown Prize, and the Bridport Poetry Prize.

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