The speaker describes a strange kind of preparation. People don't really understand the moment they're living in, so they copy it, storing it up for later, as if the present were something to be saved against future need. The title, "Survivalists," hints at that stockpiling instinct, but what's being stockpiled here is experience, and the survival is emotional. Then comes a visit to the dead, a quiet, almost routine act of looking.
In the second stanza the scene turns personal. The speaker bakes a cake "like an urn," a darkly funny image that blends celebration with death, and agrees to be cheerful. But the mask barely holds. Dread is so heavy that speaking is nearly impossible. The mood is uneasy and restrained: forced festivity pressed against a fear the speaker can't shake. The poem suggests that even our rituals of joy can carry the shape of mourning, and that anxiety about what's coming can empty out the present we're trying to preserve.