Bathtub Pandemic Poems

ON BREATHING

I’m OK during the day, but at night I get scared,
Which makes it hard to breathe, which is a symptom
Of the pandemic, which is what scares me.
Well played, anxiety, my old friend. You’ve always
Warned me something like this might happen.
You’re a gift from my ancestors who survived plagues,
And worse. They wove you into my DNA to warn me,
So that I too might survive. Now that it’s happening,
Anxiety, I don’t need you any more. I need
The ones who gave you to me. Hear me, ancestors
Who lived through danger times: I’m ready for you now.
All these years I’ve carried your worries In my bones.
Now I need your love, your thousand-year view.
Tell me it’s going to be OK. Remind me you made it
Through, and we will too. Teach me to breathe.

TO MY CHILDREN IN THE FOURTH WEEK OF THE PANDEMIC

I am sorry
you cannot play
with your friends
can’t touch the
swings the monkey
bars the slide
can’t have a
birthday party when
you turn eight
next week can’t
go to school
can’t visit your
grandparents
your little cousins

in the fourth
week of this
new regime, I
hear myself say
no no no and
realize that in
normal times to
withhold these simple
joys from you
would be cruel –

but these are
not normal times
here is my
wish as your
mother: that one
day when you
are grown you
will understand these
days are filled
with the “no”
of love which
opens the door
to a million
days of yes

MY MOTHER IS GLAD

I’m calling her daily, even
Though it took a pandemic. Stores
Empty of beans and tomato sauce,
Plenty of chocolate chips & beer,
So far. I print an ancient prayer
Against plague and hang it
Over our door; drink potions
To keep me here with my children
And wait to break into my stash of
Edibles until we’ve been quarantined
A few weeks. As for love,
Give it away, I tell myself:
All your love, give it away
While you still can.

THINGS I’VE HEARD AND SAID THIS WEEK

Please mute yourself and listen
Please unmute yourself and speak
Let’s take a moment to breathe

Let’s take turns saying our names
Would you like to hold up your volcano?
Would you like to draw an elephant?

I’m so sorry I thought it was yesterday
I’m so sorry I thought it was tomorrow
How are we doing? Are we OK?

Everybody doing OK?
Here is an amulet to print
And hang above your door

Here an old story about a young woman
Who saved her grandfather by singing
Here is my living room my bedroom

My porch my basement my kitchen
Here are the windows across the street
And the faces behind those windows

When we venture out
We give each other
A wide berth

Like ships in rocky waters
Humbled by the sea
We wave to each other

Through windows and screens
We sing and raise a glass
Simultaneous but not together

Oh my friends my beloved strangers
I never knew our closeness
Until it it was gone

PASSOVER 5780

as our ancestors
painted their doorposts
with lamb’s blood
stayed inside and held
their children close

we wash our hands
wipe down our shopping carts
and keep our kids
off the playground
for the first time in their lives

in this plague spring
when the leaders fail us
we try to keep each other
alive we are midwives
of solitude and survival

when a baby is born
a mother touches the membrane
between life and death
and is forever changed
as we are changed

by this shadow
which approaches
closer every day
what is there to do
but lift up what we love

chanting pass over us,
angel of death, pass over
us all, turn back into the myth
you used to be before
you became the news

EXODUS IN A TIME OF PLAGUE

I used to study the holy texts
Night and day
Certain there was some
Wisdom inside those words
Which would make me live
Fully for the first time

Now I immerse myself
In the news
With the same solemn
Devotion I once gave
The rabbis I have become
Acolyte of epidemiologists

I used to whisper evening prayers
Now I recite statistics
And watch the curves
The angel of death
Draws in the air
With his wing

Which color is the line
For my city,
Which for yours?
Which of us is Pharaoh,
Which Noah?

When we leave
This narrow place
And walk out into
The glaring desert beyond,
Will we recognize each other
In that light?

WATCHING GAME OF THRONES IN A TIME OF CORONAVIRUS

Yes, I’m late to the party.
But I’m glad I waited.
I can’t watch those other
Shows, the cute ones,
Where nothing bad happens
While everybody stands
Too close, touching doorknobs,
Sharing food, as if everything
Is normal. These characters, though,
Get it: enemies at every gate,
Hospital tents in the city square,
Leaders who care only for power,
Heroes who give their lives
To save the rest of us.

My love and I watch side by side
On the couch, and after
Each episode we look
At each other as if to say,
Did we dream all that?
Not the show but real life:
Schools closed, doctors
Weeping, empty streets…
But no, the prayer against plague
Is still taped above our doorway.
We are still in the middle
Of this season, and no one
Knows how it will end.

ODE TO MY FELLOW MEETING ATTENDEES

I love seeing the inside of your home.
I love seeing your cats perch on
Your chair, your children tear through the
Room, your small dogs nestled on your lap.
I love your houseplants and your dressers,
And for those of you who are good
With technology, I love your fancy
Backgrounds and what they say
About your souls: you love San Francisco,
Or would live in a jungle given the choice,
Or are a priestess of the occult
With a hundred candles and one giant cat.
I love your couches and your kitchen cabinets,
Your hanging pot racks, your bed piled
With laundry or perfectly made,
Your bare walls or tastefully hung art,
Your surprisingly inspirational bookshelf
Decorations: “Believe” in silver script.
All these years we’ve worked together
And only now that we are far apart,
Can we be this unguarded. I remember
My seventh grade boyfriend—we never
Spoke at school, but on the phone at night
There were no secrets between us.
My fellow meeting attendees, we
Are like that now: so separate, so far
Apart that we can finally invite each other
Into our holy of holies.

COMPARATIVE BIOLOGY

Everything’s cancelled except
the ants, who still parade
along the kitchen counter
like nothing’s wrong, lifting
their crumbs like tiny
trophies. I hold the sponge
above them, ready to wipe
them out as usual. It’s our little
dance; we do it every afternoon.
But today I hesitate. The ants
have been my only guests
for days and days. And aren’t I
like them now, as this weird
microscopic tentacled orb
holds its metaphorical sponge
above my species, trying
to wipe us away? Reader,
I’m no saint. I wanted a clean
kitchen; I killed the ants. Unlike
the virus, though, I feel remorse.
Tell me, which of us is worse?

TO PHARAOH

I never understood
why you couldn’t just
let my people go, even as
the plagues approached,
even when holding on now
meant losing everything later.
Now I get it. It’s terrible
to separate, to say goodbye
and watch the world drift away
like a sailor leaving shore–
alone, and who knows
for how long? No one
belongs to anyone, Pharaoh,
you were wrong about that.
And yet the opposite
is true too: we all belong
to each other, which is
what makes it so hard
to let our people go.

LOCKDOWN, WEEK 2

How quickly the dystopian future
Becomes the daily present

Before this happened
We imagined it over and over

All those movies
Those books

As if we longed for it
During the years of safety

As if we dared it to slap us
In the face wake us up

Make us weep make us feel
The edges of our lives