Viral Spike by Clif Mason
She was just about to leave the building
for the day
when a giant viral fan came on
& sucked all the gladness
right out the vents.
The lights became dim
& her temperature rose
hard & fast.
Maintaining social distancing,
everyone sat down
because it was simply too difficult
to stay on their feet.
They felt as if moving
even a little
required more breath
than they’d ever have again
Above their masks,
their eyes became unfocused
& the lights dimmed.
She thought at first of loved ones
& friends,
but the gaps between thoughts
became longer.
She was certain she would perish.
But the next shift arrived
& shut off the fan.
Most came back to themselves,
enough to wash their hands and go home.
Still,
three people killed themselves
as soon as they were cleared to leave.
One slit his wrists with a staple remover.
One, wearing her mask,
hanged herself
from the drop ceiling
in her office.
& one fed
his right hand & arm
into an industrial-strength paper shredder.
Dozens were taken to a hospital.
Of those, ten died on ventilators
& twenty were transferred,
after two weeks,
to the state mental hospital,
where they remained catatonic.
Six months later,
she was still having trouble sleeping.
Same with her friend in the next cube,
who said she & her partner had separated
& friends called less frequently.
Almost half the people
who’d worked in the building
had left
& gone their unmasked ways.
The rest sat, masked, at their desks,
unable to stop their knees
from trembling.
Why did they stay?
The economy’s bad.
The job market’s hopeless.
We have a good health plan.
Find more from Clif on Twitter
“Stay Home” by Jason Montgomery
Find more from Jason here
She Now Came Back by Tom Squitieri
The calendar cackles
As if charting a day
A week, months
Can substitute
For a dearth of
Radiance
She went away
Faint becomes dim
Creativity gets
Impatient
Dreams dither
With her
Spring would come
Frequently
Each Sunday
To light the burn of
summer
Moments
When she would
say yes
Being a magic
And powerful fusion
Scientists only dream about
There are no
Complicated formulas
To rack
She is the unending
Energy
Today, dawn
Cracked a smile
murmured
Look how the sun
Is shining today
Today, when you
Sleep alone far away
You rolled on
Your side and looked
My way
As only you can
The fresh rain
Smell
returned
Find more from Tom on their Website, Twitter, and Instagram
Shadow Woman by Traci Coppola
The child isn’t speaking. The napkin-shredder girl. What the hell.
I do my best, just like my biology teacher told me I should when I swore off horseback riding and tried to steal one of the microscopes under my blouse, all to save myself some time and cram in as much knowledge about cells and bacteria. You can spend some time with the horses and you can spend some time with your studies. You don’t have to do it all. Just do the best you can. Do the best you can. She’d say this and it was a weight off, a chamomile tea, a soft nest after a wartime cot. I’d listen and stare at her long, dark braid with envy and a little distraction. I wondered if she braided it alone each morning or if she had help and either way what was that like. I pictured an antique standing mirror and a room with a low slant, wallpaper with images of multiple woodland creatures dancing. But in the end, I think I just wanted to hear it. I nearly failed biology because I was hardly there and I went back to the horses—Atticus, Dauphine, Johnny Boy, Sam, Dixie, Anton. Grooming, stall cleaning, watering, feeding, swatting flies away from their big, expressive eyes. Watching with daggered suspicion the group of Troubled Kids get off the bus each Saturday for their mandatory hour of equine therapy.
Some girls called me Horseshit. I had no idea I smelled like horse manure. When I told them I should be so lucky– horse shit is some of the strongest, most durable stuff on earth and you can put it straight in the garden—they’d stare at me and walk away. They didn’t want the conversation.
I’d love to spend more time in gardens in any fashion anytime. I think about that when I short-cut through alleys in the city on my way to the Wash & Dry. I tell it to the naked Kewpie dolls, the piles of dog hair, stained mattresses and distressed boxes. We can’t afford it.
Today no one is out, just like yesterday and the day before and the day before. The parking lot is empty. But the Wash & Dry is open. I took this job because most other doors are closed. The manager told me I could stay here all day, clean what needed cleaning, and mind his two small children, a boy named Danger and the girl whose name I have forgotten. I tried to amuse them by showing them some of the unclaimed clothes, the dirty underwear the people who have no shame drop off. Danger cringes and kicks the side of the washing machine, threatens to walk across the street to the abandoned house full of opaque jars and homeless people. The girl lets the pile of napkin shreds fall from her lap, tears falling as she begins to unlace, lace, and unlace her shoes. But she still won’t speak or allow me to console her.
Some people call this a blessing, say it will bring us closer together in the long run and that we should never forget to tell our friends and family we love them. People drop off their resumes and I throw them under the dryer when the children aren’t looking.
I do my best to believe in that post-COVID ideal, too. Where we are all safe, happy, and relieved. I do my best.
In my dreams, I cannot remember what has happened. I do not worry about death or broken walls or jobs or stressed children. I am a horse and there is no nation. My hooves navigate moss, old-growth trees, and stretches and stretches of desert. I cross lakes at moonlight, surrounded by the wisdom of ancient grizzly bear caves. I swim in the sea, swallowing the same salt water as the whales. My back is strong and has never felt the whip, the spur, the weight of man. I am free.
I look up and the children are gone. I run to the door and see them in the parking lot. They’ve discovered a lost Chihuahua and cornered it near the dumpster. Before it darts under, I am able to catch it. It struggles and shakes in my arms. Come on, children, let’s go inside. Let’s bring him inside. He needs a home. This is what I will do today. And maybe he will still be with me tomorrow.
Mount Parnassus by Ann Huang
Today: you, a cloud, the trees,
a cup of Johnny Walker, the sea
without usual stillness you weep for.
A woman is surrounding you.
You are thrilled.
Only for her. The sea,
without its usual stillness,
go to high tide from low tide.
More than this. The humor
many highlights of silver. You’re
craving that. Humor is your soul.
You embrace the high tide. So calm &
blissful with the droplets you endure.
Find more from Ann on their Website and on Twitter
“Michael, the essential” by Julia Justo
Find more from Julia on their Website, Instagram, and Twitter
FLIGHT. REIMAGINED by Mary O’Melveny
Coronas surrounded the globe,
Monarch butterflies delayed their
returns, waited in jungle mists
to await news of normalcy.
Later, when it was deemed safer,
the flutter of their wings rumbled
across mountain ranges, echoed
in tide pools, mimicked breathless waves.
They entered skies that had shed smoke
so they passed sights unknown to their
ancestors. Along the way, they met
other gravity-defying
travelers who were shedding fears
of extinction like a second skin.
As they flew, a new sound emerged.
Call it innocence. Call it joy.
Call it wishful thinking. There was
inspiration for new symphonies.
Find more from Mary on their Website
Butterflying Tears by Tracy Stamper
Finally tears fell
onto the oasis of her yoga mat
forming a river
It had been a drought of human connection
for countless days already
with who knows how many more ahead
Roots grew down into earth
crown reached to skies
as inner eye traveled the river of tears
Bloodstream traveled
for spirit visits
to her kin
Heart beat to and fro
contract and release
with love of family
Breath takes in what needs cleansing
like plants filter air
exhaling compassion for all
despite her fears and her angers
when viewing carelessness
of her fellow humans
Tears cried in mourning
for all that once was
and will never again be
Tears cried as a fountain of heart
touched by how fellow man helps fellow man
even in these days without touch
Will spring
feel like spring
from inside?
And then
the flap
of butterfly wings
Do you know
how loud they are
in silence?
Do you know
the feeling of delight in your chest
when they lift up into flight?
Remember this.
Remember
your butterfly heart.
Find more from Tracy on Facebook
The Deep Insides of Tomorrow Remain Unknown by Dave Sims
Find more from Dave on their Website and Instagram
Six Feet Closer by L. R. Camacho
The tender touch and smells
of being in open spaces—
holding hands and kissing—
I long to be six feet closer to you.
Find more from L.R. Camacho on Instagram
Daydreaming on a Saturday Afternoon in May During a Global Pandemic by Andrew Posner
It’s Saturday afternoon about two months into social distancing and quarantine and I find it hard to daydream. I can cite the numbers—70,000+ dead, 30 million+ jobs lost—but we have all become statisticians of the macabre. Let’s talk about something else. In the morning there were snow flurries and now an imitation sun is making false promises:
– those branches are not swaying in cold
– you don’t need a sweater to keep warm
– it is snowing in May and everything is perfectly fine
– the train that rumbled by was full of healthy people doing weekend things
It’s Saturday afternoon. I just read that the virus is mutating, anti-vaxxers are joining other unsavory elements to protest public health measures, the president doesn’t see the need for mass testing but is now getting tested daily—we all know the news isn’t good. Let’s talk about something else. Last night I had a dream. A poet wearing PPE stood in a park crowded with unmasked people; no one heard him over their laughing and their coughing. Elsewhere, nurses stood up to gun-toting, flag-bearing protestors; somehow, no one was shot or got sick. A grandma and grandpa died before they could visit their grandson; the funeral was held by video chat. Okay, let’s talk about what kind of country that boy will grow up in…
Reset by Ryan Norman
It’s day one million or something and I’m tired
of birdsong.
The sun breaks my sleep and
birds chirp, an alarm I can’t snooze,
out of reach in the boughs,
grating at my frayed pattern of
patchwork sleep, pulling threads
of my patience with hard beaks
like bugs from the dirt; soiled sheets
wrapped around my cold-sweat
of last night’s anxiety dreams.
I gulp a breath into my belly
drowning in a relaxation technique,
trying to reset.
The Shins start to play and they’re
singing about gold teeth, so I stop
to think what they mean, but the flood
begins, a deluge of thoughts—
I need a bath to relax.
I pour in lavender salt to calm and cleanse
and wash away the new sins
that come with being locked inside
for so long. Unoriginal sin. Not taken
away. Immersed in water, I float.
Find more from Ryan on Twitter
One Month In by John Robert Grogan
Cracks appear in the street
On a short drive.
Squabbling on the pavements,
Four incidents of close quarters
Breaking loose and spilling
Into public spaces, where they
Can not be still inside their cages.
It is loud voices wrestling mass focus,
But eyes scream
What are you looking at?
Just waiting for the go-light, then I’m gone.
A mother-daughter combo
Where the younger gets a thump,
And carries a look of
Should’ve ordered a whole chicken,
Instead of two halves, impossible to work out,
Why is maths so hard?
An activewear-couple bicker on
A side street; the tone breaches
The side window of my car,
Like a surprise pebble on the windscreen.
He’s paces ahead, any nearer he’d be – deaf.
Two rakishly thin ones,
No lights on their bikes,
Peddle straight toward my
Vehicle in the night,
Expecting to carry on with life;
Two or four weeks inside
Has turned these jokers into clowns.
Argument is rampant,
Sunset switched them home-bound,
Anger is go-faster stripes
Hurry the f*ck up!
Curiosity is calmed by parking.
Strolling in the darkness
Before the outside light has
Softened shadows, another
Spectacle of rage ranges
Through the parade.
I check for a full moon,
But only stars tonight I see;
And they are perfect-imperfection,
A cocoon of sacred light,
Like our gentle wabi-sabi,
Where we love and scream and fight.
Find more from John on Instagram
I Can Do Without by Nancy Jorgensen
I don’t miss suburban department stores or clothes-strewn fitting rooms. Overstuffed racks. Overpriced pants. Over-piped music.
Or movie theaters with sticky armrests. Reclining-chair headrests: sometimes lice nests. A waiting line for Skittles and popcorn.
Or grocery stores with rain-soaked carts. Lettuce mist dripping on my leg. A deli salad buffet. Domed donut displays.
But oh, for a beer on tap, outside on a deck, at the lake.
I don’t miss airplanes and airports. Bulging baggage. Moving walkways. Knees on the bathroom door.
Or food courts or Coke machines. Greasy fries. Pizza on plastic trays. Soggy bread around pastrami and cheese.
Or overblown weddings with expensive gifts. Rain-soaked vows. Too much free beer. Wishing I was home.
But oh, for a beer on tap, a microbrew with foam, at a high-top table, outside on a deck at the lake; the scent of seaweed and damp; pontoon boats cruising by.
I do miss the beach and a coverup. A kid with a squirt gun. An iron-black grill. A bite of my husband’s hamburger.
And bookstores with next-door coffee bars. Bookseller friends. Hushed customers in aisles. Poetry readings at night.
And live concerts with professional musicians. Violins and violas. Dulcimers and harps. A singer with a guitar.
But oh, for a beer on tap, a microbrew with foam, IPA or red ale, at a high top table with a swivel chair, outside on a deck at the lake; the scent of seaweed, sun and damp; pontoon boats cruising by; muskies jumping to shake off a hook or just breathe the air.
Find more on Nancy’s Website, Instagram, and Twitter
Currents by Oliya Maicoh
Find more of Oliya on their Website
I Pick Up The Newspaper by Christopher Rubio-Goldsmith
These days slow dance
me there by the table
near the chair that is always
playing a loud solitude.
How many steps
down the hall?
The bathroom rug
has finished shrugging
at the yawning dog.
Jigsaw puzzle funk
radio bump bump and
it’s finally 3 in the tarde.
Casi la house seems big
enough to contain yesterday.
The novel reads the same
page over and over. That
way no one gets a paper
cut. The same words
rumble each other
closer and closer to
a duel meaning.
Can todos agree
some movies just don’t
stand the test lasting a week?
Jokes do get stale
but drama gets revised.
Plots rob liquor stores.
I pick up the newspaper
off the sidewalk with a dishrag.
The neighborhood families
ride bikes right by
me and wave. I try
uncovering my hand quickly.
They have seen the same
New York Knick t-shirt for
five days.
I just want to help
Superman stop
the earth’s rotation.
Summers with Granny by the Shore by Pastel Schway
Millions of bubbles with frothy foam streamline the dimly lit shore
Mesmerizing even as I had seen it thousands of times before
With constant and perfect rhythm, a lullaby so sweet
The waves never once pause as the water parts and meets.
Clear ripples lap at my ankles, swallowing bare heels then carefully withdraw
In the shore-light a tiny ghost crab gracefully escapes a swooping bird’s jaw.
The crab scuttles through the wet shoreline, leaving prints
Of soft, riddled secrets in the sand whispering hints.
Water spurls upward, mark, then sprawls towards me.
The edge of my dress dampens as I walk further into sea.
Rough granules of sand prick between the crevices of my toes.
Salt bits cling to my skin as the water plays its vagrant ode.
I walk in the dark to the time you held my tiny hand, leading me by the ocean calm.
The reflection on the water is soft and soothing like an angel’s quiet, open palm.
When you called and said you’d be here like before
The reds of my swollen shoes just brood, waiting, on the beach shore.
My heavy lids close the monologue with the pale midnight air
If only I could make it back earlier to this secret lair.
My hand drops into the sea, fingering the cool water’s qualm
I still my movements, sigh, and watch the glittering calm.
Upon the waves, the stars tumble and topple, riding the points of the full zodiac
As the wind blows the water forward and back, my reflection keeps getting further off track.
Then the meek stars all kneel upon the flickering waters
Like receding tide carrying each born moment to its slaughter.
I stare back at the stained-glass water projecting the moon-glow
And give a full kiss to the sky above and the deeps below.
To each piece of colored shimmering glass, a memory of the past I see
I think to myself even though I’ve come so far, will the night let you see me?
Steadily the sun begins to rise and I
Lament it’s time to bid another goodbye.
The headlights of my Uber approaching, I turn and gaze into the sand one last time
And steal a burrowing sand dollar from the shore, clenching a moment that’s yours and mine.
Then as the car pulls away, a pair of red heels is left cradled deeply in the sand
I’m ready to brace the hospital again as the sand dollar molds itself into my hand.