In These Times

Pandemic poems are elusive
like snapshots
seemingly from another timeline
remembering mostly unretrievable
as if a dream sequence

Did I have small children once
did they love the backyard
kiddie pool
soft serve
what is soft serve anyway
and were they afraid of bees

Words fade forward and dissipate
before the chance to write them
as new horror barges in
rendering poetics irrelevant

But still some stay
as if to hold me in their arms
(I need you to atect me)


May Flowers

66,000 dead?
Unsure and unknown
where to find out
or whether it’s true
once I do

But I do know
we’ll suffer in June
for our collective enjoyment
of May
in America


Broken Heart Emoji

Unmasked chant 
while demanding to work
as cogs 
    in the machine ~~