According to an updated version

of The Kinsey Report,

zombie sex is an anomaly,

but I have twice witnessed it myself:

Once in the parking lot behind

Joe's Bar&Grill,

two zombies dry-humped

in the neon glow of a green beer mug.

The sound was like two giant locusts

rubbing coarse thoraxes together.

I almost expected one of them to ignite.
The second time, I found a zombie

mounting the quadriplegic

who lives next door. I had gone there,

as I do each Tuesday, to read to her.

We were three-quarters through

Pride and Prejudice, and my neighbor,

also named Elizabeth, had been dreaming

of late about Mr. Darcy and life at Pemberley,

only there must have been some mistake.

This was no Mr. Darcy, but a zombie,

thrusting his slick digit between her legs.

Later, as I washed the maggots

from her catheter and skin, we

speculated on the reason

he had not killed her.

I ventured that her immobility

and poor circulation

confused the brute, who perhaps

took her for dead. Elizabeth

fancied another notion, one

involving the first stirrings of love.
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