Life in the Plague Year

Touching your face is dangerous.

Eyes, nose, mouth: portals for the virus

to barge in, hijack your cells.

 

Eating in restaurants is dangerous.

Glasses toasting, diners laughing.

These are the sounds of death.

 

Shopping is dangerous.

Milk, bread, veggies.

Staples for the last meal.

 

Children are dangerous.

Running to grandparents.

Opening arms. Cutting off breaths.

 

Friends are dangerous.

Tilt your head close to share

secrets. Germs drop on her cheek.

 

Crowds are dangerous.

Stay home. Don’t go out.

Don’t congregate.

 

No more libraries.

No more schools.

No more theaters.

No more parties.

No more restaurants.

No more churches.

No more. No more.

 

Our lives have shrunken

to the size of our apartments.

We wait behind locked doors.

—Written April 24, 2020

At the Water

Walking the edge of the Hudson River

that seven years ago swelled

on to the shore, flooding living rooms,

subway tunnels, pooling

on the concrete, reflecting a city

watching, hunkering down.

 

My sister watched a roof-size tree

careen toward her house, barely miss.

My husband six safe flights up,

no power, no batteries, six long flights.

All of us mourning people drowned

at home or in torrential streets.

 

New York City now swept

in a pandemic wave.

Hospitals swelling beyond capacity.

Not enough ventilators. Not enough masks.

Nerves stretched to the limits of elasticity.

 

Visit the sick. We cannot.

Bury the dead. We will try.

 

As I watch the ducks bob with the waves

my mind pulls my loved ones close.

I want to hold them here in a place

where they can watch the waves

where they can feel the sun’s rays

where they may tremble   but

 

where danger never reaches them.

Where nothing troubles the water,

and the water recedes.

—Written April 27, 2020

 

Signs

Not the dearth of spring blossoms.

Not the limp birds on fire escapes.

Not the March wind screaming in April

or the cold sidewalk standing witness.

Nothing warned shelter in place

calling the virus an active shooter.

Nothing marked the spiked red

corona the crown of death.

Nothing readied us for elderly hands

holding a FaceTime good-bye.

After the busyness of death

we wait. But nothing like

the white dove with green sprig

appears to signal the crisis ends.

—Written April 30, 2020

ABOUT THE AUTHOR | Michelle M. Tokarczyk has published two books of poetry: The House I’m Running From and, more recently, Bronx Migrations. Her poetry has also appeared in many journals and anthologies, including Third Wednesday, Unearthed, Masque & Spectacle, and For a Living: The Poetry of Work. She is a professor emerita of English at Goucher College. Tokarczyk was born and raised in New York City and has, for many years, been a Chelsea resident. To visit her website, click here. Bronx Migrations can be purchased from Cherry Castle Publishing, by clicking here.

 

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