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Self-isolation with universe

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Self-isolation with universe

The universe has a peculiar reaction to our sincere desires.
— Mary Ruefle, “Someone Reading a Book”

Sincere desire: to call
today the worst birthday
but I don’t care.

The cat is all now you know
how it feels. House finches
swing on the feeder,

chuffed to see me
behind glass. My sincere desire
is to record a teaching video.

I am pale but I explain
the field of cultural production
to an empty room:

could be a metaphor but
I’m guessing not.
Doubt is my peculiar

stir crazy. On my last walk by
the creek, a woman bolted
when she saw me

fifty metres off, startled
like she was a deer and
I a hunter or a virus.

Just me in the woods
looking for rushing water
to listen to this week when

the Big Strange merged with
the Big Lonely: everybody’s
all-time ailment.

The cat is never sincere
but she flings one back
foot over the keyboard. Stay.

What I Do and Don’t Miss

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What I Do and Don’t Miss

After Nora Ephron’s “What I’ll miss, what I won’t miss”

What I Don’t Miss

Traffic
Chauvinism
Mall noise
Parking meters
Public restrooms
Small talk

What I Do Miss

Sparring
New book smell
Textures
Specialty tea stores
The family cat
Hugs

Done Here

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Done Here

Small the changes we made
to the yard from last
spring to this. Shrubs
mainly, a path, a deck.
But we must have changed
the northwest passage
around the house for today
the strong wind, soothing
as it was for a time
in its familiarity as I sat
with the horror of news,
ultimately crushed the curve
taken by a flock of American
tree sparrows against my window.
One after one they fell. I rose,
made myself look at each one,
the whole works. Dead dead dead
dying dead. Look what I’ve done.

(Original link with readers’ comments here.)

Creatures, already dead, come here

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Creatures, already dead, come here

One is my mother. Her smile a Siamese cat’s —
her ears sharp and tail proud as she blinks a wise-eyed stare.

One is a dead poet I love. His appearance wakes me
inside the dream I’m dreaming. I panic that he has died,
but in my sleep, he lives again.

Who is here and who has gone?

The abandoned shells of crabs are numinous
and litter the beach.

The smallest cormorant dreams
the soft salty flesh of crab. The beach sends ominous signs to my waking self.

One is a friend who died at sixteen, our lives briefly linked.

I walk though these dreams. Are they my own?
In a mask I walk. In a hand-sewn burgundy mask.

People who have died catch this terrible cough.
Die again.

I wake
to the waking world,
the dog on me breathes his shuddering sigh,
while the dog of my dreams
quietly
watches me.

The Pandemic

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His very darkest brown eyes sparkled and were so vibrant in contrast to his blond, prairie-field fluffy head of hair flowing freely in the wind. His eyes jumped with the excitement he carried in his nine-year-old body.

He was as excited as any nine-year-old boy would be with the notion of going home. To be reunited with his maternal brothers, hopefully with Father and all his paternal extended family, too. Especially his friends. His excitement soared.

This time it was different, as this time he had to be extra careful, donning gloves, a mask, and sunglasses. He called it The Corona. It was his friend he retorted, likely his way of remaining calm and showing he can be a big boy.

Nanny drove with them most of the night. A police car followed them for kilometers, turning onto a road leading from the shores of the South Shore Atlantic toward the airport. They passed the time with idle chitchat, mostly about Corona. Covid-19 they called it. A global pandemic. The streets of the little town they had lived for the past few months were bare.

Nanny reminded her daughter at least a hundred times to wear her mask and gloves and glasses, not to touch her face. Wipe things down with the carefully, thoughtfully, hesitantly packed Clorox Wipes, neatly wrapped in two large baggies.

She really didn’t want them to go. She was deathly afraid. So afraid she was almost immobilized. She didn’t know how to express her fears let alone hide them. You see, she was the Matriarch of her little family. Most big decisions went through her. Now, her only thought was: How do we get through this?

There were at least sixty wipes folded into each bag. Every time Nanny reminded her daughter, she said, “I know, Mom!”

Nanny had planned to go too, but then changed her mind. Who would to be here to take care of the rest if indeed her daughter became infected and died? What if her daughter brought it back? Someone else in her care could lose their life.

Air Canada changed their flight at least six times. One time her daughter even accidentally cancelled the flight with the link they provided, thinking she could change it. She was in a panic after two and a half hours of waiting on the phone. The second leg of the flight had now been reserved but with a ten-hour wait at the busiest airport in their country. Her daughter was frazzled but thought maybe the airport agent could help them get a better connection. No such luck. The government was directing flights.

It was now late afternoon. Time for them to go through security. Nanny’s heart sank. Could she hug them? She looked at the Security Agent. At first he wasn’t going for it, but Nanny’s boy came and gave her a hug. Nanny had tears in her heart, hoping and praying for their safety.

They did make it to that big metropolis and once there decided to get a hotel room for the ten-hour layover. When it was time, they got on the last leg of their travel and finally arrived late at night. Nanny could sleep when she heard they were safely at their destination city and their true home.

(Original link with readers’ comments here.)