by Ruth Wiggins

Come the apocalypse
and days of cellars
filled with the very
worst kinds of meat,
you and I, with our scant
supply of practical skills

will have to rely on these     
healing hands of yours.
Oh I know you’re bored, but
place them again over my
aching spine, feel the discs
shift and realign.

Oh there will be gifts            
and furs in tribute, of this
I’m sure. And probably
usurping girls to boot,
who I suppose I’ll just             
have to learn to kill.