Pandemic Poems - APRIL 2020
Bio Note: I am a poet and songwriter living in Oakland, California with my wife and son. I graduated with an M.A. in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University, and have published previously in the March 2019 and July 2019 issues of Verse-Virtual, as well as in Adelaide, Selcouth Station, Ink in Thirds, The Pangolin Review, A New Ulster, and many other journals.
This Poem Has Teeth
I find my son’s bicuspid on my dresser beveled little stone yellow and off white dried blood on the jagged underside cairn of calcium tilting on the sandstone beach of my palm how did that tiny flashing light from 12 years ago harden into enameled rows planted in red plots of nutrient-rich soil how do any of us move from light to matter and back again then I remember there’s a killer virus going around and wash my hands.
We spray our groceries with rubbing alcohol, cross the street to skirt a cough or sneeze, but mostly stay indoors and draw, read, dig out musty board games, cook, eat like we may never eat again, and in the night we peer through reeds of dreams and picture bodies burning on a sacred pyre, smoke rising like an offering to ancient gods moving beads across an abacus in heaven.
©2020 Scott Waters
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell her or him. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is what builds the community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -JL