Tag: covid poems

I.
The truth is
We’re all born with a natural speed
And mine is a bit
Overclocked. I’ve always been like this.
When I was a kid
My aunt tried to tell me
To go to bed with a book to fall asleep.
Laughed when I took two.
Stopped laughing when I came padding out
In little stocking feet
In need of more.
There’s room for words in here.

II.
The truth is
I don’t like the way I feel
When I scroll on my phone: jittery.
Anxious. It’s hard to say this
Without sounding like I’m claiming a virtue
I’m not. I just don’t like
The fidgety feeling. Also
I was born with more than my share
Of executive function.
I brought enough for the whole class.
So it’s easier for me to do
What I mean to do. To find my intention.

III.
The truth is
I was probably bitten in infancy
By a radioactive bookworm,
Though there is no record of this.

IV.
The truth is
I like to read. Reading is what I like best.
I squeeze it in
When I can. Stir the soup. Read a little.
Fold the laundry. Read a little.
Do my work. Read a little.
Call my mom. Read a little.
Also words are my job, so sometimes
This looks like:
Read a little. Read a little.

V.
The truth is
Last month I sat by my grandmother’s bed
While she died. And I read.
I read in the hospital. I read in hospice.
For most of it
She no longer wanted to talk
Rarely asked for water
So I read.
Mystery novel after mystery novel
Justice following justice
Until her end. Books sustained me
While I tried to let go
Of sustaining her.
Books were not her refuge
But because she embraced me,
She embraced them being mine.
I would rather mourn
With Tennyson than without
With Dylan Thomas than without.
I hated last month
But I got through it with books.
That’s how.

(Periodically someone asks me. This was today’s answer.)

Please text us “STOP” if you no longer wish
To receive this apocalypse
(Your subscription will continue, but
Your feedback is important to us.)
Text 1 if you object to its spread
In wild animals (cf white-tailed deer).
Text 2 if your animal objection
Is domestic (house cats et al).
Text 3 if you have individual human concerns
You would like to express such as:
Aunt dying alone and terrified
Old friend struggles to walk or control heartbeat etc.
Four is the number to press for
More general thrashing existential rage.
444444444 is not a valid message.
Please try your sorrow again.

I want justification
To the margins, lists
That include what I tried
Not to forget.
I want deep clean breaths,
Freshly squeezed lemon,
Quiet. I want things to stay
For a moment,
Not like they are now,
But like they were a pulse ago,
Before I noticed I missed it.

Friend Robot is confused in these latitudes
Sleeps often, wakes fractious:
Where are we? What’s happening?
This is not where you said you’d stop.
I don’t know these people
I can’t find my friends. The sun
Stays overhead so long, and I can’t help.
It is my turn to soothe:
Here is your tether. Though confused,
You are not powerless. I will show you
Rocks and moose. So many trees.
We still have the lake, the compass
Yellow apples, my notebook.
My mother still loves me, my friend
Writes poems without the ringing of your bell.
Sleep softly, Friend Robot, and in the city
I will tell you tales of the animate north.

I don’t know where I am.
It all looks like West Michigan to me.
But Friend Robot says:
Stay to the left, avoid the debris.
Here is a bell to remind you:
Your mother loves you.
Take the next exit.
Humans have been here before,
Though not you. I know the way.
This Dollar General is the proper one
To pass, though it looks like the others.
This bell means your friend wrote a poem.
Be at ease. You may hare off
Across the fields, but it will gain you nothing.
Stay steady. All will be well.
You have a compass, the sun, the lake,
Your notebook, two yellow apples.
And now you have me.
Your family waits there safe for your arrival.

This will all seem obvious later.
They will look back and marvel:
How didn’t we see it? We did.
We knew. That’s how mistakes go,
That’s how the fixable parts aren’t fixed.
I went into this middle-aged,
Will come out that way. I spend
One of the years descending into invisibility
In seclusion. Maybe two. Who knows.
Every week another essay:
Who to pity most. Who’s missing most.
What year is most crucial. Let me tell you,
From the borderlands of disappearing:
Every year. They are all your vital
Beautiful horrible green growth years.
Or they might be. Each one.
Who can say yet? It’ll be obvious
Later. (I knew. I know. I’ll know.)

First thing is: you’re doing it wrong,
And probably a monster. You must feel
Your feelings honestly, but never
Let them touch another person. Don’t repress
But don’t let it take over.
Grief is a tank division
Backed by bombers; grief has battalions,
Shock troops, poised:
Taking over is its only goal.
You must repel them.
Always fighting, never defeated.
Emotions are a shark,
In constant motion, lest it die. Move on.
You must move on.
The only goal is to move on.
Never pause, never rest, never honor.
Only move. Without this
Your villainy is assured.
Hurt people hurt people–God forbid
They should know a moment’s pain
In solidarity with another,
God forbid, feel a twinge
For a loss not cataloged and claimed.
What you feel is unbearable
And every path through it proscribed,
Still worse to linger. Find a man
In tweed, a woman in soft linen.
Say the right things on their couch.
Pause at the right moments: thoughtful,
Contained. At peace. Never return
To tears, still less raw anger–never rage
At an uncaring universe. If you tell
Even one sweet story, with a sad smile,
You’ve returned. Back to the world
Of bright colors, fitted clothing,
The world of before–which you must re-enter
Seamlessly, and not merely watch
As through a screen, the storylines
Assigned you in your old life.

Next year will wash this year’s socks
Eat this year’s leftovers
Bury this year’s dead.
Slate morphed out of shale
Always carries its past,
Never blank. What we failed
This year still lies crumbling.
What we built still stands.

I wanted to know who she had been
They gave me adjectives–nice, so nice
The sweetest lady. I wanted to know her loves
And those fell rarely from their lips.
By chance, a mention: she loved
The river valley in autumn. Oh. Me too.
She was oak and birch, maple and sumac
Blazing? Yes. So am I. Then another:
Turtle sundaes, pecan and caramel
Sticking in our molars. Yes. Oh yes.
With that I start to build an idea,
The faintest image of who she was,
Who we would have been together.
As we approach a million,
Gather their loves: this one a sunset
Streaking wide prairie skies,
That one petrichor and sunshine,
Another varnished wood. This is how
We keep them. This is how we keep our souls.