Poem July 18 2020 “Winners”

The eavesdrip of his wrath is death,
and daily death, and unlike the last, best
holocaust, it flails like laundry under
global scrutiny.

Where science and civics are firm friends,
survivability blooms; then dies in a bucket
overwatered
by arrogance and greed and sloth
seen as shadows on a screen
eating the burning bones of the end of the world.

Into my housebound day, a short walk.
I’m wearing a mask, because I’m
contagious
daily.
Human contact doesn’t happen.
The gap is observed.
We make two circuits of the local schoolyard
and sit it in the shade.
I nag him.
I don’t fully grasp the semblably saurian
reflex of it, a chicken pecking,
even I can see it, and I do it anyway.

This crisis won’t be dead until we are
and we won’t die as winners.

poem- stop and start

find feeling and follow
the words, a parallel furrow
dug into the body
not to wound but to attest
that this event has meaning
drawn beyond the geophysics
marks my marrow
||interpret these lines||

poems about motherhood
and hardly any about
how it is an alien occupation
shifting tissue into your brain

yes, truly, I am centred in my frame

/mark these deletions
they are where I was brute
and woman
no one wants it/

trust the body
connect this breath to that word
and make that spider thread
a braid of wonder

poem ‘phone call’

A video call is too hard

I don’t have what it takes to manage it
and his laptop’s never booted up
work has eaten every moment

my outgoing text: Call me when
you have the opportunity and energy

I reach out with

this

ping

of

intent,

better to do this

than

not

Finally, as the depression grinds through its portion
of his brain, and barfs up his attention span, he calls back
and I say I don’t judge you for making me wait

it’s like crossing the road in wild traffic
you must wait for your moment and dash

will the world
still be there
when the scramble for now is over

poem ‘the open tap’

fantastical lights from faraway places
retain their moment in time and I mine
settling myself into the gendered slurry
that is English

those lights
candles for my bath
as I stub the life from this lepisma saccharina

here’s a snapshot
it will be six months later
during a pandemic
when I finally stir myself
to clean up its corpse

grey in life, grey in death
almost indistinguishable from the grout

I can’t write today, I can’t
I’m a mote, should be mute, a little scrotey
blemish on the terrifying backside of English letters
all jealousy, a tunnel through inadequacy
reaching up through all this debris
for a garden of kindness
a shield against the noise

instead
a mask

over the top of my face
years ago I got the plague mask
years ago

and on the bottom of my face
a white rectangle, broken into diamonds
a fabric diamond on my face
I never had one for my hand
I am a metagraph of ‘something into something else’

my mind and my DNA

once I had a face and now
because I love you
I do not