How to Survive a Nuclear Attack

My son has a plan for our afterlife.
We will meet right here, he says,
and hang a sign so that the realtor
knows we’ll all be coming back.
It’s how we will find each other
again.

I plug the groceries into their
places, take stock of the water
and batteries, check off duct tape,
flint, charcoal, diapers, and cans
that refuse to expire. My plan for

the bombs my son already seems
to know are coming. He believes
we will be bodied enough to live
again in this house, with dumb
couches and dirty rugs, that it’s
the meeting place in this world
and the next, and that the transistor
radio I put in the basement is for
when we decide it’s dark enough
to dance.