The story begins with a police woman
coming home after work to relax in a hot tub,
or with a man unstrapping his wooden leg.
What can I tell you about them that you don’t
already know? What can I tell you about the
zombies in the woods around the cemetery?

A man is in a motel room, taking off his clothes.
A woman is somewhere taking off her clothes.
They climb onto a bed, they move closer together.
Noticing everything, really interested,
the man like a husband between the woman’s legs.

The room is very hot. The man and the woman
are swearing copiously in the exertion of their love;
their skin is wet and slippery where they touch.
The photographic lights are turned on, and positioned
around the bed. The movie cameras are started;
we move up closer for a better view.

You take your own clothes off and drop them
on the floor; you squat by the edge of the bed.
The man’s daughter, who is not quite six years old,
comes up and stands beside you, watching everything.
The other children are behind us, whining and
fighting; the couple is moaning on the bed.

A teenage girl with an expensive camera
is busy taking pictures. One of the female
zombies wanders into the room. She is pitiful
and frightening. The voodoo doctor was here
earlier. That was before the fucking started.
He left with the man with the wooden leg.

He must prepare for his service tonight-the
white service, the service of friendly spirits.
He chalks the prescribed designs out on the floor.
He doesn’t know it now but one of the women at
tonight’s ceremony will be possessed by the spirits.
There will be no danger of zombies tonight.

Meanwhile, the woman on the bed is squeezing
shut her eyes. Her nipples are stiff and straight;
There’s gooseflesh on her throat and chest.
Outside the window we can see two more zombies,
both males, milling at the edge of the woods,
one in a shirt and pants, one in only pants.

Nobody knows how many zombies there are in the woods
around the cemetery. Sometimes one is mistaken for
a prowler or a child molester, and someone shoots it.
When that happens, the slug goes through as through
dead flesh, leaving a hole, but bringing up no
blood. The zombie just goes on in its helpless walk.

The police woman will tell you that things like this
don’t happen in Florida. “I’ve heard of some strange
goings-on over in Louisiana , but not around these parts.”
She is relaxing in a tub of hot water bath after work.
You are sitting on the toilet lid, listening to her,
watching her, letting her talk into your tape recorder.

She likes to have someone to chat with afternoons,
to help her unwind after a long day dispensing
justice to northern Florida’s criminal population.
She goes on to tell you about some rough boys
urinating in the county sheriff’s upturned Stetson
during the Decoration Day picnic at the fairgrounds.

During the rites in the voodoo doctor’s shack,
one of the women is possessed by the spirits.
no danger of zombies tonight. She arches her
back; her eyes roll back in her head. Her body
quivers all over. Her blouse comes unbuttoned in
her delirium; her skirt rides up around her waist.

The white of her panties and brassiere seems
radiant against her wet brown flesh. You watch
the arc of her crotch as she squirms against
the floor. The savage music makes you feel weak, the
frenzied dancing, the jogging, swirling candlelight,
the smell of sweat. You back out through the door.

The warm night air rises around you like a wave,
chilling the sweat in your clothes. The drums,
the frantic music, still vibrate in your muscles,
making you feel feral and uncivilized. You gulp
the moonlight, fish-mouthed, wanting to drown in air.
The moon’s white process mixes with the streetlamps.

A Cuban man is standing, smoking by a station wagon.
He tells you he has a film with a female zombie ,
“a very unusual item” he says-he’ll sell you copies
for a hundred dollars apiece. He says it was made
in Haiti, though the street signs betray an American
location. It is otherwise everything he promised.

It makes you think of another movie you saw once
called “Voodoo Doll.” But this one is even better.
It makes you think of sex with a dead body, the days
when you would try anything, your lover in medical school.
This is the night that the county prosecutor, a famous
anti-smut crusader, and well respected citizen, is killed.

Mistaken for a prowler, he is shot to death outside
a police woman’s bathroom window. Meanwhile the woman
from the motel room has gone home with the man with
the wooden leg. He takes off her clothes, while he
unstraps his wooden leg. This could be the beginning
of a story, you think, standing outside in the moonlight.