Social Distancing

 

 

One

7:30 a.m. is denied entry
streets wide open like veins with a stent
neighbours hoarding clouds
good thing supply is endless
horizon clawing at your window
sky a fancy name for controlled falling
time to know your clothes
from the inside out
brew some cortisol in your Keurig
touch the TV remote like a saint’s femur
somewhere in a bunker
a child forgets the sun
somewhere on a gurney
a mother becomes an ancestor

 

 

 


 

Five
Morning
Never has a day been so arbitrary,
the overcast so unsure of its meaning.
Trees stammer through the sky like a Latin text,
an exam in a class they never attended.
A robin sings but it’s just a demo
that will languish on its hard drive.
Gravity has been working out,
makes cans of soup into oil drums.
The cat wakes from a vehement sleep
then licks his paws to excess.
He bites me, hard, as dawn
is blackmailed into coming.

 

Evening
Pedestrians cross the street to avoid burning one another.
Each one has a flint and jerrycan,
each one is made of birchbark, dry sphagnum and newspaper.
Each one is a manuscript ready to send its smoke
into the firmament, its signals, its cries for help, its ambulance wails.
Inside my house, no-one would know if I went up in flames.
My low moans, my rocking back and forth, my bubbling fat.
So much silence here that nothing can break.
So much darkness, with only a lit match to guide me

 

 

 

 


 

Six
March in a small city is what happens
when red, blue and yellow mix into a slurry.
The ground has been spread with wet dog pelts
and the buildings turn neurotic.
It is a finger pressed against the lips,
a signal not to argue but concede the point
to a friend you disagree with.
It is the hush in the room as you sleep off a virus,
each breath in asking if there’s time,
each breath out shrugging maybes,
shuffling its feet, too nervous to meet your gaze.

 

 

 

 

 


 

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.