Don’t let things spoil. 
Schedule the lettuces 
and other perishables
according to their use by
dates or your own inkling 
of rot and mold. Note 
the sweet potato’s pulpy 
white end that needs to be 
cut. Create new plans 
for the shitakes darkening, 
the savoy’s edges curling 
inward and all those funky 
cheeses ripening into oblivion. 
We are all perishables. My advice? 
Spring to the tune of scallions
rescued from under bunches 
of kale, inhale their fragrance 
rinsed of dirt--slimy outer 
layers pulled--then sautéed 
with cabbage and a lone 
red pepper that slipped 
through the fridge’s cracks.
                        

What creature is this from some alien race 
of canine myth, leftover life force rescued 

when the country still had litters and castoffs
available. People are desperate, roll down 

their car windows, stop to talk in the middle 
of the road when we walk. Where did we get her?

Such a great breed! Intelligent, friendly, hypoallergenic! 
Can’t they see there is nothing standard about her 

legendary lavender tint revealed through wanton 
brown cover-girl curls poofed as a topiary lamb, 

sprouting surreal head to tail. Oh puppy, we stare 
in disbelief at such Brothers Grimm style, pointed 

snout gleaming in profile wolfish as Little Red 
Riding Hood’s grandma, velvety eight-month-old 

face shaved to show off an authentic silver lining, 
topknot and ears bouffant as a woodsman’s wooly 

cap, flaps flying mid-air, equally animal and human,
anthropomorphic princess who outsmarts us, bounds 

ahead with leggy grace and horsey stride downstairs, 
leaps over dog-gate, kitchen-counter height, mouths 

the world, bear-long shock of pink tongue lapping up 
milky half-finished tea. Teeth and temperament all 

love-dove and ankle-bite and chew, she tastes 
and tests furniture, nature, patience, keeps 

our indoor hibiscus tree trimmed. Even home-
groomed by a rare pair of barber’s scissors 

and fumbling fingers she lights up these rooms 
where we hibernate, acts like she just arrived.
                        

This new form of distancing gives me pause
with every breath. With each gloved hand
that secures the mask—nose to lips to jaws
this new form of distancing gives me pause
like nothing else since learning the laws 
of intimacy as a girl. No matter the errand,   
this new form of distancing gives me pause
with every breath, with each gloved hand.
 
Imagine an end to distancing measures, this cause
for masks to break my breath from yours and
yours from mine and theirs. Our lives in the maws
of distancing measures, it’s hard to recall no cause
and effect. Touch me. My hands and heart grow raw   
from all manifestations of fabric, soap, reprimand.      
Imagine an end to distancing measures, no cause  
for masks to break my breath from yours then land.