both ugly and bright

it smells sometimes –like baby’s vomit,

or maybe tastes like baked bread

fat melting in your mouth.

a small sliver of light behind a rain.

afraid of night.

it wraps its long skinny rays around

like an octopus, or

it walks away.

 

My ex-husband
is living in Chicago.
He looks disheveled when
I use technology to call: There he is
appearing suddenly on my screen:
his hair thin and gray
his face ashy. His eyes blurry
with sleep –even though
it is 5:00 p.m. The governor
has just announced a lock-down, or
stay in, or whatever it is they want
to call it. My ex-husband
on some mornings
cannot bring himself to
get out of bed. I tell him to call
his sister in Lincoln, to get out
to go away, don’t stay in the city
where there are too many people, where
every time you step out of your door
someone is backing away

People here
don’t go out
They are afraid
to take a walk
down the block
to talk to a neighbor
to look at a tree, a leaf
a flower. The only beings
left who can see
are still
flying blind.

 

Nobody wants to look
at who they are
Be vulnerable
the self-help books
proclaim from computer
screens because
book stores no longer
exist
everything is online, plugged
in. People back away
from each other
and into their screens. Who they are
has disappeared.

 

There is nothing left
at the grocery store
no bread no eggs no milk
no cheese
even the aisle where the beans
used to be is eerily empty.
Some people walk around
oblivious, trying to get
“all up in yo face.” They don’t
care or know that there is
panic
in the streets
in the air
in an accidental
touch as everyone else
scurries
away