March 1, 2020After the Poetry Reading, We Go to Dinner and Try Not to Talk About Death,
over dessert, sharing
bites—coronas, ‘crowns’
of sugary-proteins—
with near strangers.
All of us
careful
to use share-plates
and dip our spoons in
just the once.
I confess
I’ve just had
the flu, confess
my ear is still clogged
from the flight. I hear
popcorn popping
when I swallow.
The nurse warned
of fluid, warned
it could hurt
to leave
the ground or come
back down. The virus can live
on your clothes
for up to three hours.
How to hug
my children now
when I come home?
Can I exchange
this body
for another
cleaner, less
human mess?
Should I burn
my clothes? Toss them out
or right into the wash
on high or hot or sanitize,
whatever we think kills
what we bring home.
How do we tell
what is enough? Do
enough? I envy the woman
wearing a peach mask
and breathing
only her own, stale carbon.
Four cities. Four airports.
How many hands
have touched
the things I touch?
How many
points of overlap
between us? All
our dirty movements?
Each touch—
unaccountable
risk.
Boarding pass. Baggage
tag. The handle
of my suitcase. Armrests
and tray tables. An elbow.
The half-washed
bar glass, too weak to kill
what it could carry.
How many chance
infections? How
flammable we are.
As easy to move through
as clouds. And just
as transient,
as likely
to spill open.
from Poets Respond