Pandemic Poems - APRIL 2020
Author's Note: In the early days of the pandemic (Southern California version) it seemed I had nothing to write about and no energy to write that nothing. Then I began making notes about some of my late-March/early-April dreams. Those notes turned into this poem.
One night a woman turns into a marble, shedding legs, torso, arms, neck so she can spin across a floor. Waves lap the tile, wash away her limbs. And then another woman desperate for meat tries to kill a baby. Inept flashes of a knife and a bloody cradled infant crying. But then a doctor speaks his heart to me, is stunned when I accept him despite quarantine. As early as I can I sink into my California king, tell myself the plague can’t visit when I sleep.
©2020 Penelope Moffet
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